


Ajar

by cupcakentea



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, London, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Sick Louis, Social Anxiety, an inordinate amount of French, and that special flat that became our haven, nothing serious no worries, this is my love letter to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 22:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakentea/pseuds/cupcakentea
Summary: “Hiya there. Harry, right?”It’s a bit high and airy, raspy around the edges. Something familiar and soft, something from a fever dream. Gentle sandpaper. And when Harry turns around, breath caught in his throat because this can’t be happening, he half-expects the sight, mind already whirring. Still, he isn’t prepared to dive back again into the two forget-me-nots that are waiting for him.Harry is bad at first impressions; luckily, Louis perseveres.





	1. Je viens du ciel

**Author's Note:**

> This one is not only my first "Challenge fic", but also the first long one I managed to write. I never thought I'd be able to realise either of these things as a writer, so I already feel like I've won something.
> 
> I'd like to thank my betas, [Maggie](https://ls2k14.tumblr.com/) and [Cha](http://yslbanana.tumblr.com/) who both saved me and this 30k monster by doing a more than incredible job, most of it on the spot because I'm terrifyingly bad with deadlines. I'll never apologize enough for the amount of typos, terribly placed commas, and horrid grammar. I'm forever in debt.
> 
> Also, my thanks go to Tris. This fic wouldn't be here without you, your constant support and your care. I bless the day you came to me. Thank you, for being you and being here.
> 
> Finally, I wanna thank the mods for this exchange. You've done an amazing work with organising it. I loved writing this piece and you're all at the origin of it. 
> 
> The chapter titles come from "Petite Marie" by Francis Cabrel  
> "I come from the sky and the stars around only talk about you. About a love more blue than the skies around."
> 
> Enjoy
> 
>  
> 
> Prompt : "You know, sometimes? There's a little bit of hair sticking up at the back of your head and it makes me sad. As does the sound of your voice, and the way, sometimes, the elastic on your socks gives out and I can see them slumping around your ankles. In Ubykh, 'you please me' translates literally to, 'you cut my heart'. ...You cut my heart."  
> The Language Archive by Julia Cho

When Harry wakes up, it’s to the sound of pots banging in his neighbour’s kitchen and spots of sunlight dotting his skin, daylight seeping through the holey curtains. He feels cold air on his leg from where it’s dangling off the bed, the duvet twisted around the rest of his body, and there’s definitely something furry on the top of his head, like a warm and purring ushanka hat. Slowly blinking the sleep away, he reaches up with one hand to pet Yolanda, the other blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand and lighting up the screen, his tired eyes trying to focus on it.

 

8:45 a.m. The first alarm hasn’t even rung yet. Fuck his neighbour and fuck his breakfast. Harry hopes that whatever they're cooking ends up burnt, charred, and leaves a bitter taste that’ll last all day on their tongue.

 

Gathering Yolanda in his arms after a much needed stretch, he moves to stand up and get an unfortunate and unwanted early start on the day.

 

He walks to the kitchen, aimlessly petting the Russian Blue that’s nested against his chest, and tries - but mostly fails - to fix himself a cup of tea one-handed. Setting Yolanda down on the countertop, avoiding the puddles of water he just spilled, he then leans against it, right next to her, and gazes out the window while sipping from his cup.

 

The view remains unchanged, Northpoint Square’s grey and white houses standing out in the early morning; the old woman that lives across the street sat at her table and watching TV as per usual. Still, the weather looks pretty nice and Harry could definitely walk to uni if he wanted to.

 

He doesn’t.

 

Finishing his tea in one long gulp, he goes to wash his face, put some deodorant on and pick his outfit for the day, ending up bundled in a cozy jumper and some skinny jeans. He prepares his backpack and adds Jaccottet’s _A la lumière d’hiver_ as an afterthought; reading it last night has put him in the mood to read some poetry on the way.

 

Shrugging on a beat-up leather bomber jacket, he grabs his backpack and heads for the door, giving one last caress to Yolanda’s back and a kiss on her head on his way out. The door closes on her meowing goodbye.

 

The late September air is not biting his cheeks yet, but there is a slight chill when Harry walks to the bus stop and waits that makes him think about grabbing his light scarf the following morning. When the 29 arrives, there are fewer people than usual and it takes a moment for him to remember that he’s early on his schedule. He makes his way to the back and settles down on a free seat, wasting no time to take the volume of poetry out of his bag and start to read, the words washing over him to the lulling rumble of the bus engine.

 

Engrossed in his reading, he is only interrupted a few stops later by the bus lurching twice and halting. Peering up quickly, Harry realises the driver is waiting for a late traveller to reach the opened doors.

There’s a commotion when he finally does and in the uncommon quiet of the bus, he hears a high-pitched, raspy voice from the front. “Sorry mate, thanks for waiting.”

 

This time when he looks up, his eyes set on caramel swirls of hair that look softer than Yolanda’s fur. Then, the man turns and Harry dives straight into piercing blue eyes that stand out from the darker shade of the bus, the two inevitably clashing. The man isn’t really looking at him but he still feels a warmth reaching his cheeks, blooming there, and he lowers his head, trying to focus on the words in front of him. He only succeeds in noticing from the corners of his eyes the man walking further inside and picking a seat that’s a few metres from him across the aisle. Glancing at him, Harry notices his fringe softly falling on his forehead, almost grazing impossibly long eyelashes, and the curl of his lips that look chapped from the cold. He looks incredibly cozy, buried in a large scarf that hides his chin in, a woollen varsity jacket and some grey sweatpants.

 

In the light of the autumn morning, the boy is absolutely stunning.

 

Harry feels the urge to walk over and strike up a conversation, but the only thing he can think about right now is that the man’s eyes are the perfect incarnation of the sea as Charles Trenet sings it, and that would make an incredibly embarrassing conversation starter. A creepy, obscure, incredibly embarrassing conversation starter. So Harry stays put and watches.

 

The sun is hitting the man’s face, playing peekaboo with the trees outside, and it accentuates the valleys and grooves of his features. He can see the small twitches of his fingers against his legs, his head that’s slightly bopping to whatever music he’s listening to, the crinkles at his eyes when he catches sight of something outside. Minutes tick by without Harry noticing, his book lying open on his lap, completely forgotten in favour of the poetry that lies in the boy’s very being. Harry’s fingertips are tingling, tempted to grab a pen and paper.

 

Suddenly, he watches as the man calls for the next bus stop and, actually, looking at the University College Hospital building outside, Harry realizes he is stopping here, too. When the bus turns, reaching University College London’s main entrance and stopping, Harry waits until the man gets up and out as well, trying to see a hint of caramel locks amongst the groups of students passing by. Striding past the gates, he walks a few metres more into the quad before letting out a disappointed sigh. He heads to class, unsuccessful.

 

It’s a complete coincidence if his alarm rings at 8:45 a.m. on Tuesday, a coincidence if he looks up from his book when the bus reaches Camden Road Station, and another one if he goes back to the poems with a sad tilt to his mouth when the bus leaves without the handsome stranger on board.

It would make sense that he would have a different schedule every day, Harry thinks as he’s heading for the library since he’s now one hour early for his first class. Every student does, but it feels inconvenient, bothersome in this instance, and the will to see the boy again is like an unrelentless itch in Harry’s brain.

 

So when the stranger boards the bus at 9:20 a.m. on Thursday, Harry has the urge to squeal or do something just as mortifying, like walking up to him and poking his cheek to make sure he’s not dreaming. Instead, he sits on his hands, not taking any chances, and watches as the man sits at the front this time. Harry can’t really see him properly from where he is, only the expanse of his back and glimpses of his profile when he turns his head and looks outside, but even that doesn’t dampen the joy that’s suddenly filling Harry’s tummy because at least he’s here.

Much like the first time, Harry knows he’s staring and the questioning looks the 40-something-year-old woman sat next to him sends his way confirm it. But the thing is, he can’t stop himself because there is something about the man that’s drawing him in, capturing his attention, and he’s on the verge of writing down verses about the shape of his ear amongst Rimbaud’s words, already printed on the page he was reading a few moments ago. And there’s this urge again to walk over and sit next to him, to hear the gentle sandpaper of his voice once more, to know what it feels like to have those blue eyes set on him, to have the man’s attention.

 

Harry tamps it down, buries it within himself, because he knows how that would go. A disaster, like many times before, when Harry’s slow drawl has exasperated, his questions infuriated and his comments weirded out. Harry is good with words on paper, literally. He reads, he writes, and he knows he can be good at that, at dissecting sentences and uncovering meanings and building up creations of his own, letter by letter. He’s been told so, too.

 

But talking to someone is another matter altogether and, apart from the occasional exception, it solely results in frustration on both ends. He has resigned himself to observe only because even though he knows he isn’t really one, being told he is a “pretentious prick” lost its charm a long while ago.

So, talking to the pretty man tucked against the bus window is out of the question. When they both exit the bus, he walks a few metres behind him, smile hidden behind the scarf he’s now taken to wear, his chest filled with the reluctant acceptance of someone knowing he can look at a work of art but not touch it to feel the paint under his fingers.

 

Reaching into his pocket for his phone, Harry sets an alarm for 8:45 a.m. on Mondays and Thursdays.

 

***

 

Harry doesn’t have many friends in London. Actually, that’s an understatement.

 

Harry doesn’t have friends in London, period. He knows a few people, has acquaintances, waves hello to some students in the hallways. But no real friends.

 

Most of his friends from school and college have stayed back in Cheshire and he just doesn’t see them anymore, especially since his mum and Robin left to move to Manchester last November. The past year in the residence halls had been trying, a time of perpetual confusion and adjustments. It was living without his family for the first time and having to deal with flatmates, some considerate, some not. It was constant noise around the flat but also outside of it; rowdy crowds in the common room on Friday and Saturday nights and hearing banging and moaning from the room next door when he was trying to revise. It was trying to fit in, going to freshers parties in clubs and drinking the night away, but not really connecting with anyone. Ultimately, it was stopping the pretense and going back to what he liked: quiet nights by himself where he read some novels or wrote for a few hours, watching GBBO while Skyping Gemma and recalling their week to each other. The big move to the city had been all that his heart desired and more. The people he met there, not so much.

 

He tried to make friends still, but it didn’t go that well. Harry knows that he often puts his foot in his mouth, that he doesn’t formulate his thoughts the way he means them, and he comes across as either rude or tactless. A pretentious prick. Gemma used to say that there was a problem of mistranslation between him and others and Harry still agrees. He feels clumsy, always trying to deliver his message while being paralyzed with the fear of making a misstep, a mistake that will have the whole conversation tumbling down like a house of cards. And the fear, it just creates more missteps, more mistakes, and the house crumbles as easy as that. People retreat before he has time to explain or apologize and Harry doesn’t blame them. He’s wondered often what it was; an issue with his impulse control, a distinct lack of awareness of social etiquette, not getting what things are allowed to be said and how. He just wishes he had a dictionary, a thesaurus, something to give to people to help them translate what he says.

 

He wishes he didn’t need one.

 

So after his first year at uni, Harry doesn’t have friends.

 

But there’s one person that comes pretty close.

 

“Harry! Over here.”

 

Walking through the door of the Film Society meeting room, Harry sees Zayn softly wiggling his fingers at him from across the room, lips turning up at the corners, eyes fixed on him. He reaches him in a few strides and sits down on the chair Zayn kept for him, says hello. They haven’t seen each other in months and yet it still feels as easy as when they said goodbye before summer.

 

“How has it been mate? I haven’t seen you around at all since classes began, I thought you disappeared on me,” Zayn asks, a hint of teasing in his voice.

 

“Didn’t you think we wouldn’t have the same schedule as last semester?”

 

“Nah, I did. But I liked the thought of you going AWOL on uni to go write in the wild, making friends with birds and deer and blasting some old French music in a shitty cabin,” Zayn says, glinting teeth on display with a toothy grin. “You’d scare the local children away, I think. They wouldn’t like your grumpy arse.”

 

“You’re a dick,” Harry answers with a forced sigh, trying to hide his amusement. The mental picture is quite striking.

 

“Missed you, too.” Zayn’s eyes are fond. He ruffles Harry’s hair, like Gemma did when they were younger, and Harry doesn’t try to control his smile this time.

 

They met the year before, when Harry signed up for the Film Society in the second semester. When he went to leave after his first meeting, Zayn caught up with him, asking him about film recommendations for the screenings the club organised.

 

“I… Erm… I wouldn’t know where to start to be honest,” he answered, fingers fumbling with the shoulder strap of his backpack, nervosity making his limbs electric, ready to shock.

 

“Well, the theme for this semester is LGBT+ movies. Anything you know in that area?” Zayn inquired, his bored and monotone voice not helping to soothe Harry’s frayed nerves. He looked like he had a long day, like he couldn’t wait to get the conversation done with and just curl up in his bed, his tiredness deeply set into his features, spelled on his eyelids. Harry thought he must have the same thoughts written all over his face.

 

“Actually, I saw Lifshitz’s _Les Invisibles_ a few weeks ago,” Harry stated, eyes anxiously darting to the door, teeth biting on his bottom lip. With each sentence, he knew the chances of him saying something wrong were increasing and he wanted to get out before it happened.

 

Zayn squinted slightly at him as if suddenly more present in the conversation. His voice definitely sounded more alive. Somehow, it made Harry’s stomach knot even more, feeling pinned under the other man’s gaze, caged in. Trapped.

 

“Don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

 

“Of course you haven’t,” Harry said then, slashing the air with it with no warning, and his gaze abruptly landed on Zayn, eyes widening almost comically with surprise, mirroring Zayn’s. There it was. He lowered his head, waiting for the inevitable cutting remark that should follow a comment such as this.

It never came.

 

Instead, he startled when Zayn started chuckling, the force of his laugh growing more and more like a summer thunderstorm until he bent with it, clutching his knee with one hand, his stomach with the other. Harry watched, dumbfounded.

 

“Erm… I’m…” Harry began, not knowing what to say, how to react.

 

“Well, damn,” Zayn wheezed out. “A bit harsh.” There were pearls of water at the corners of his eyes and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered with a confused voice. “Didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, not many people have seen it. Or heard about it really. It’s French.” He rushed the words out because being allowed to explain himself was not something that happened too often.

 

“Sounds interesting. Wanna tell me about it?” Zayn offered, grabbing his own bag from the floor and heading for the door, gesturing for Harry to follow him. They talked about the film on the way to the bus station, and many others with the weeks that followed. Harry’s unwilling bluntness never failed to make Zayn laugh and the reaction never failed to make Harry think that he was very lucky to have found him. When Harry struggled to explain his idea in a debate with the club, flinching under the others’ focus, feeling the edge flowing in, ready to spill, Zayn would help formulating his thoughts, supporting his arguments when others rolled their eyes. Every time, the feeling of gratitude came back, ever growing.

 

Zayn had been the only person Harry really missed during summer.

 

And now, back with him at the back of the meeting room, Harry almost wanted to tell him about the pretty man on the bus, almost wanted to share his frustrations, his desire to talk to him.

 

Almost.

 

“Wanna celebrate coming back to uni with me and my flatmates? We’re going for a pub crawl tomorrow. Niall’s orders,” Zayn inquires quietly, trying not to disturb the discussion happening at the front.

 

Harry shakes his head before opening his mouth. “You know I don’t really do that. No offence.”

 

“None taken. But I think they’d like you and you’d like them, you know. I mean, they definitely wanna meet you... Maybe next time, something more lowkey ?”

 

“Maybe,” Harry says. It’s the second time Zayn has tried to organise a meeting between him and the guys but the setup is never something that seems comfortable for Harry. He actually considered it this time but a pub crawl is definitely not something he feels okay doing with people he’s only heard of, even if he has heard quite a lot.

 

Sometimes, Harry almost feels like he knows them. Liam, Niall, and Louis; the three inseparable friends that became the boyfriend and the flatmates. During their time together last semester, Zayn always recounted stories, anecdotes about the tiny family he formed with the other three. Once, it was how Liam had tried a new “culinary scientific experiment” Niall had prepared for him, Louis and Zayn both refusing to be guinea pigs for the Irish lad. Another time, it was about the hilarious drunken game of pool they had in the common room where Louis kept missing the balls with his cue and almost speared Zayn in the stomach. There were shy mentions of dates when he and Liam started their relationship; allusions to parties thrown in kitchens and the collective hangovers that followed, comments on their trips outside the halls, the afternoons spent in the nearby park, lying on the green grass and talking about everything under the sun. It was no surprise they decided to move in together for their second year, and it put a smile on Harry’s face when Zayn broke the news to him. He could read the excitement on his features even though his expression seemed as calm as ever. It hid in the twinkle of his eyes and the twitch of his upper lip.

 

So even though Harry didn’t have friends, he knew what it was like to have some through Zayn’s stories and meeting them didn’t seem utterly ludicrous anymore.

 

But a pub crawl, that is not gonna happen any time soon.

 

So at the end of the day, Zayn and Harry both go their separate ways with a wave goodbye and the promise to see each other the following week. Harry heads back home, the weight of the past five days slowly but surely lifting off his shoulders with each street lamp the bus passes. When he enters his small flat, Yolanda rushes to the door, sliding between his legs with a loud meow, the rumble of her purr starting like a tiny and happy engine.

 

“Bonsoir princesse, la journée a été bonne?”

 

Yolanda only meows back, eyes looking up at him, slowly blinking. Harry smiles at her, hand lowering to pet her head affectionately. Heading to the kitchen, he fills up her food and water bowls and she lets out an appreciative chirp, going straight for a drink.

 

Slowly peeling his coat off, Harry settles down on the loveseat, covers himself with the blanket thrown on its back, and closes his eyes. He reminisces about the week that just passed, mind wandering. Two blue spots bloom and dance behind his eyelids followed by caramel that seeps in the crevices of his mind, syrupy soft and warm. A small smile tugs at his lips and his last conscious thought goes to the stranger on the bus, to whether or not he’ll see him the following Monday.

 

***

 

He does.

 

The boy is there on Monday morning, signalling for the bus to stop, and the sight of his silhouette cutting against the greyish street makes Harry’s heart skip a beat or two, his breath catch in his throat. He didn’t even open his book this time and he feels completely ridiculous, like an overeager puppy; but his brain is filled with blue blue blue when his gaze lands on the stranger’s profile, catching the corners of his eyes, heart moving with the shifting oceans they hold. The man walks over, head bowed as he focuses on the screen of his phone, and he sits down in the seat right in front of Harry.   
Harry blinks a few times, shell shocked. If he’d hoped of seeing the other man again, having him so close is on the brink of being too much and he feels fragile, ready to break in two like the brandy snaps his nan used to bake. He stares in front of him, gaze set on the windshield, wispy strands of hair the only thing visible in the edges of his vision. This time, he won’t give in.

 

That is until the scent hits him. It’s something spicy, like cinnamon and nutmeg, with a hint of something woody hiding underneath.

 

His mind flashes to the old living room, to the open plan kitchen. Harry is five and he’s standing against the counter on his tippy toes, watching Sophie sprinkling spiced sugar on the bottom of the pie dish.

 

“Tu vois Harry, le secret d’une bonne tarte tatin c’est les pommes. Il faut qu’elles caramélisent,”

she said with her gentle voice. Harry remembers not understanding all the words and yet getting the meaning with the tone of her voice. She always sounded very serious when she talked about baking. His au pair was the best baker he knew, sometimes even better than his mum or grandma, and tarte tatin was his favourite.

 

“Je peux … erm...try, too?” he asked, still clumsy and yet better than Gemma who wasn’t interested in the slightest in learning French from Sophie.

 

“Bien sûr mon coeur,” she said before getting him a stool to stand on and handing over the bowl. “Vas-y Harry, tout doucement.” He loved how she made familiar words sound completely new, letters like the H of his name disappearing and others taking their place. What he preferred, though, was the soft songs she knew, never tiring of how she crooned the foreign words while petting his hair. He knew he was her favourite, cherishing that knowledge fiercely.

 

The memory fades away like a veil lifting from his eyes and leaves something lodged in his throat that feels too much like nostalgia. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell until they burn, wanting to choke on it, blanket himself with it and disappear, become invisible to the world. His gaze falls on the back of the man’s head and there’s a bit of toffee hair sticking up, a cowlick that hasn’t been noticed and fixed yet. Harry wants to lift his hand and pat it flat, or maybe run his fingers against it to make it stand out even more. He clenches his fist, nails digging half moons into his palms.

His eyes travel to the stranger’s nape, the gentle slope of his shoulder, and the next thing he can see is his right foot sticking out in the aisle. The man must have dressed in a hurry; his sweatpants are not completely pulled down and Harry can see a sliver of ankle poking out, the worn elastic of the sock letting it slouch on the bone and revealing a tattoo.

 

It’s a small triangle, a simple line resting behind the malleolus, and Harry wants to trace it with his forefinger.

 

He closes his eyes for the rest of the journey.

 

His Thursday starts with a bang. Working late on an essay due for the following Tuesday, Harry ends up crashing into bed at 2 a.m., Yolanda already settled on the far side of the mattress. She was softly wheezing in her sleep and he had joined her seconds after his head touched the pillow. And slept. Way too much.

 

He only wakes up to something insistent licking him on, and actually inside, his ear.

 

“Yol, gross!” he groans, lingering on the s a tad longer while his hands shoot for his phone. His very dead phone. That didn’t play his usual alarm.

 

Harry shoots off the bed and runs across the room, picking stray clothes from the clean-ish pile on the floor and the armchair in his wake. He rushes to the kitchen, one arm jutting out of the hoodie he caught, the other one rummaging through the cupboards for something quick to eat, head struggling to push through the neckhole. He grabs a pack of biscuits from the countertop, his portable power bank from the small table and heads back to his room to grab his backpack. He’s out on the street in less than 10 minutes.

 

Plugging in his charger, he feels a frown settling on his face when his phone comes alive. 9:30. He’s late. Harry waits for the bus, a ball of disappointment weighing down in his stomach, biscuits long forgotten. Once it gets there, the bus is crowded with no seats left whatsoever and he has to stand in the alley, pressed between two unknown bodies that are way too close for comfort. Letting out a deep, uncontrollable sigh, Harry feels a sting press up behind his eyes, a shameful wetness gathering at the corners. He closes them, refuses to cry for something as silly as a bad morning.

 

When the Camden Road Station stop is up, all Harry can feel is resignation, not even lifting his head to check what he’s sure of: that the beautiful man is missing, commuted at least 20 minutes before him. He looks out the window, staring at the building passing by, barely wavering even after the bus empties out at the next stop and allows him to find a seat at the very back.

 

What finally makes him turn his head is the joyous giggle of a little child somewhere in the front. When he does, his eyes widen with surprise and awe.

 

The boy is there, standing in the middle of the bus, hand wrapped around the holding bar. He’s there and he’s pulling faces, tongue poking out, wiggling the fingers of his free hand. His attention is fixed on a toddler sat on its mother’s lap, hiding its face away, the chubby little fingers doing nothing to hide the glee on its small face. Soon, there’s laughter spilling out of the tiny mouth and the man’s face breaks in half around a beam infused with sunlight.

 

Looking at the scene, Harry feels like there’s a supernova exploding in his chest, his heart aching, hurting with longing to embrace the boy, wrap him up in his arms and shield him from the world. He can’t decide who’s more precious between the toddler and the stranger.

 

The man never stops from keeping the child entertained and the softness in his gaze doesn’t leave, not even when he calls for his stop, waves a final time, getting a tiny waggle back in answer, and departs from the bus, Harry follows him from a distance, completely dazed. He forgets that he should head to his first class, that today he’s not as early as usual, but when the boy walks briskly across the main quad he doesn’t hesitate to follow, going in the middle entrance a few steps behind.

 

It’s only when someone collides with him in the hallway, spilling all their tea on his black hoodie that Harry snaps out of it, heading to the toilet to fix the damage done to his clothes and to his mind.

If the hoodie is fine by the evening, Harry can’t stop replaying this morning’s scene in his head, brain stuck on a lovely loop of crinkled eyes and shiny smiles and supernovas exploding. He buries his grin in Yolanda’s fur, her soft purr doing nothing to drown out the thought that he feels like a smitten fool.

 

***

 

Friday comes around, Zayn and Harry finding themselves at the back of the Film Society meeting room once more. Thomas is gesticulating at the front, trying to find a theme for December because he just loves to plan in advance, and by the looks of everyone else, he’s the only one in the room who does.

 

“We’re having a chill night at home with the boys tomorrow, wanna join?”

 

Zayn is giving him a look that can only be described as hopeful. It doesn’t feel pressuring, never does with him, but there is a glint in his eyes that tells Harry he really does want to introduce him to the boys, that he appreciates him enough to try and include him in his makeshift family.

It makes something warm unfurl in his chest.

 

“Chill night?” he answers. He doesn’t want to make any assumptions yet.

 

“Yeah. Couple movies or some reruns. Liam might actually make some pizza, he’s been talking about it for a few days. Not buy. Make.”

 

It’s nothing too wild for a first meeting with three boys he’s never met, and even less for a second-year Saturday night. It sounds like something Harry would actually enjoy.

 

“Why not…” he trails off. Looking up, he meets Zayn’s wide eyes. He seems a little shocked, making a good attempt at schooling his features and hiding it before his expression turns into something softer, infused with pride.

 

“You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to, okay, Harry? And you can leave whenever you feel like it, no pressure,” he says, head lowering, coming closer to Harry’s own without invading his space.

 

“You say that like I’m gonna run for the hills. I’m not made of glass, you know,” he answers, feeling a line forming on his forehead.

 

“I know, mate. I’m just saying, don’t force yourself if there’s something you’re not okay with. I want you to have a good time and to feel comfortable with us, you know,” Zayn goes on, gaze set straight on Harry’s, who’s smiling at his thoughtfulness.

 

“Don’t worry, Zaynie, I know how to defend myself,” Harry replies with a grin.

 

“That’s the thing, I don’t want you to need to,” Zayn adds with a nod of his head, as if he’s trying to emphasize his words. Harry blinks a few time, attempting to see things from his point of view, and settles for reassurance.

“That’s nice of you. I’m sure I’ll be fine though, so no need to worry too much.”

 

“Okay. I’ll text you the address this afternoon?”

 

“Sounds good,” he agrees. They share a private smile, something full of giddiness, before Zayn turns back to the front.

 

“Thomas, what about Christmas movies?”

 

There’s a loud general groan.

  


***

 

Harry is definitely feeling out of his depth. And maybe a little bit stressed, too.

 

He’s rummaged through his entire wardrobe twice now, shirts and jumpers piling up on the open wooden doors. There are hangers littered all over the floor and Harry might be thinking about joining them right there, curled up in a little ball. Maybe have a good cry while he’s at it. He sits down on his bed a few centimetres from where Yolanda is gently snoozing, buried in the middle of the scarf-nest she built herself.

 

The thing is he hasn’t been out in a while and it’s been even longer that he’s wanted to impress someone. So, wanting to impress three guys he’s never seen before is a new one and his will to please burns brighter simply because he knows they’re worth it. They’re friends of Zayn’s and, from his stories, they’re just as wonderful as him.

 

So the nerves are taking hold of him and he is overthinking, overreacting, being fussy and picky when there is no need to be over an outfit for a chill night with potential new good acquaintances - new something-like-friends. Hands wringing together, itching to pet Yolanda to busy themselves but not wanting to disturb her slumber, Harry checks his phone and realises he’s spent too much time on choosing and is now very, very close to being late.

 

He’s thinking about it, the possibility to lie down next to his cat, to text Zayn and say that something came up (although Zayn is perceptive and knows him and could definitely tell the truth from a bad lie). But Harry is tired, bone-deep and heart aching, of feeling isolated, unwillingly ostracised without attempting to fix it. When he gets up, Yolanda opens an eye, then both, and stretches cutely, body curling in half, front paws past her back legs. He picks up a pair of jeans and pulls them over his goosebumped legs, then a navy sweater patterned at the hems and sets on trying to tame his short curls for the night - a fruitless endeavour.

 

There’s a “mreow” behind him, almost like an approbation. Harry turns to crouch at Yolanda’s height and presses his face against her.

 

“You’re the absolute sweetest, darling. Lil’ furry angel,” he says with a kiss between her ears and a last scratch on her back. Walking to the front door, he puts his coat and big, warm scarf on and finally heads out.

 

The walk isn’t long, not even 15 minutes, and when Zayn had sent him the address, the realisation that they both lived in the same neighbourhood made Harry smile. He takes the smaller streets once past the skate park, the city lights casting the cluster of greyish houses in a yellow glow. The cold is turning his cheeks pink and the tipsy people he walks by show the same colour. Turning at the corner of Camden Street, he stops at the third building facing the Gardens.

 

170, 2nd floor. He rings the bell.

 

“Coming!” It sounds like Zayn and it’s coming from above. When Harry looks up he barely catches the sight of a window closing. At the next one, there’s a hand jutting out, wrist small and dainty, a cigarette dangling off the fingers. They tap off the ashes, hand back inside, then outside. That’s one of the boys.

 

Trying to stir up the memory of which one of them smokes, Harry doesn’t notice that the hallway light has been turned on until the door opens, revealing Zayn grinning behind it, eyes all crinkled with it.

 

“You came,” he says, tone both surprised and relieved, and Harry is so glad he didn’t join Yolanda on the bed once more.

 

“I did. Couldn’t miss it now, could I?”

 

“Well definitely not, Liam ended up making pizza after all. Come on, mate,” Zayn adds, opening the door wider and gesturing him in. Harry follows him to the staircase.

 

“We’ve put two in the oven for now and, to be fair, it’s been smelling like heaven for 10 minutes. Niall has been watching them the whole time, I’m pretty sure he thinks they’re gonna disappear if he leaves the room.”

 

There’s a simmer of nerves in Harry’s stomach, bubbling up as he takes each step, and straight up boiling when they reach the second floor. But when he looks up, Zayn has stopped on the landing with a serious expression pinned on his features.

 

“I just want you to know that I know this is a bit difficult for you. So just, take it easy. No pressure here, we’re just five lads who’re gonna have a nice, relaxing time. And if you don’t like them, or feel uncomfortable, just tell me and we can chill in my room, too, okay?” Zayn assures, calm and collected but with a hint of nerves that mirror Harry’s. He realises then that he’s trying his best for Harry, doing everything he can to make him at ease, reassure him, and it strikes him then that maybe, just maybe, Harry was wrong: Zayn has been a friend all along.

 

“I-I’m just... Just, thank you, Zayn. Thank you so much,” he chokes out, a heavy rasp filled with gratitude, and it brings back the smile on Zayn’s face, his hand coming up to squeeze Harry’s shoulder.

 

“Now, prepare yourself. They’re loud,” he stage-whispers, pushing the door open to climb up a few more stairs, Harry following behind, and turns right, opening the last door of three. It’s a small but cosy living room-kitchen, and there’s a guy crouching in front of an oven.

 

“Pizzas are ‘bout done, I think!” the guy says, and it’s probably Niall, with the whole Guardian of Pizzas thing. The happy lilt of his voice is already making Harry feel right at home.

 

“You’re gonna get stuck on your knees, man, get the fuck up and say hi,” Zayn quips, and Niall complies without complaint, pulling Harry into a surprising but not unwelcome hug, to which Zayn huffs.

“Welcome, mate! Heard a lot about you!” and before Harry can try to pick at what that means, he adds, “All good things, no worries. Hope you like pizza!”

 

When Harry opens his mouth to answer, there’s a voice coming from the corner of the room.

 

“Hiya there. Harry, right?”

 

It’s a bit high and airy, raspy around the edges. Something familiar and soft, something from a fever dream. Gentle sandpaper. And when Harry turns around, breath caught in his throat because this can’t be happening, he half-expects the sight, mind already whirring. Still, he isn’t prepared to dive back again into the two forget-me-nots that are waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Bonsoir princesse, la journée a été bonne?”  
> Good evening princess, had a good day?
> 
> “Tu vois Harry, le secret d’une bonne tarte tatin c’est les pommes. Il faut qu’elles caramélisent”  
> See Harry, the secret to a good tarte tartin is the apples. They need to caramelise
> 
> “Je peux…”  
> Can I...
> 
> “Bien sûr mon coeur. Vas-y Harry, tout doucement”  
> Of course sweetheart. Go on Harry, very slowly”


	2. Et les étoiles entre elles

The boy is pretty. Like, insanely pretty. And that’s even with the fish mouthing and the open jaw and the weird starstruck look on his face right now - although Louis is pretty sure those aren’t usual by the concerned look Zayn is sending the boy’s way.

 

He’s pretty sure that’s Harry. Sweet, smart Harry who’s in Zayn’s strange Film Society and who actually manages to keep up with him. Harry, who is apparently the only one who has anything remotely valuable to add to each of the debates. Harry, who studies English Lit and writes his own stuff too from what Zayn has gathered. Harry, who Zayn has tried to slowly bring around to meeting them for a few months now, after talking their ears off about him.

 

Louis had been intrigued for a while, but what Zayn recalled as polite refusal made him even more curious and he had been looking forward to this moment, to meet the infamous Harry.

The only thing Zayn forgot to mention was that Harry was pretty.

 

He walked in the living room, all gangly, long limbs, thrumming with a quiet and nervous energy that had Louis crushing the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray, hands itching to push on the boy’s shoulders to keep him still. His eyes focused immediately on Niall, who had been watching the pizzas bake, crouched in front of the oven like his ridiculous self, and he didn’t notice Louis immediately contrary to Zayn who sent a pleased look and grin his way. Louis responded with a small smile of his own and got up, crossing the room to welcome Harry, who was all gathered up in Niall’s arms and still hadn’t uttered one word.

 

So, Louis was aiming for harmless with a simple acknowledgement.

However, it must not have been as harmless as he thought, because since Harry turned his way he’s been frozen, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights, mouth slightly opened and throat working around a gulp. Louis glances at Zayn, unsure, and Zayn doesn’t look like he has a clue about what’s happening either.  


“Erm… You alright? Did I say… something?” Louis asks, feeling a bit awkward, standing there with a stranger gaping at him, no matter how lovely Harry looks. Because he does look lovely and the longer they stand there, the longer he notices a few details about him. His irises, glassy meadows with sparse golden sparks, daffodils sprouting from the grass; his lips, plump and curved, petal-like and parted around the core; his small curls sticking out behind the ears, the swirl of them on the top of his head. He’s blinking a bit, and he’s closing his mouth now, a matching colour reaching his cheeks.

 

Absolutely lovely.

 

“Charles Trenet would love your eyes.” Harry’s voice is slow and surprisingly deep, dark chocolate melting slowly. Yet, no matter how slow he spoke that sentence, Louis has no clue what he’s talking about.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” He chances a look at Zayn, who looks like he’s torn between laughing his arse off and facepalming, so that’s not helping him understand, and Niall just looks as much at a loss as him, eyes landing on them in turns like he’s watching a tennis match.

 

“Charles Trenet, french singer. La mer,” Harry says, adding to the confusion.

 

“I’m pretty sure I have no idea what you’re talking about there, mate.”

 

That makes Harry blink, and then, “Oh, I know, of course you don’t.”

 

Louis bristles. He’s pretty sure it’s visible from the way Zayn’s silent chuckle stops and Niall’s eyes land on him and stop there for once. He takes a small breath.

 

“You know?” he asks, voice taut in a tense questioning, because he feels like that guy is trying to purposely confuse him right now and that just feels a tad unpleasant. But Louis’s been on edge all day, missed his bus and came in late to class, received a new big assignment for one of his compulsory modules and has only had an apple to eat since breakfast. So maybe, just maybe, he’s being a bit too defensive and Harry is not being deliberately obtuse. Harry, who’s full on blushing now, glancing at Zayn from the corners of his eyes and twisting the ring on his right hand. He does look nervous…

 

“Yeah, I mean, I wouldn't expect you to know who he is,” he blurts out, and then his fingers stop moving, frozen.

 

“And why is that?” Louis asks, voice colder now, because that definitely doesn’t seem like a friendly comment.

 

“Erm… Because… I...” Harry is looking at everything and everyone but Louis at this point, and Louis is just very tired, too tired to deal with the prettiest boy he’s seen in months, maybe years, implying that he’s too stupid to get his reference.

 

With a sigh, he turns to grab his pack of cigarettes on the windowsill and goes to exit the room, throwing a last “call me when dinner’s ready” behind his shoulder before climbing the stairs and crossing the landing to reach his room. He doesn’t slam the door, no matter how much his inner 14-year-old wants to, opening and closing it gently instead. He unlatches the window, cracking it open to let the humid air and sounds of the street fill his room. He lights up his second cigarette in 15 minutes and lets himself fall backwards on the duvet, eyes closed, a bone-deep exhaustion lodging itself between his lungs.

 

He can hear voices in the living room, right underneath him, and it makes him want to just sleep the night away so he doesn’t have to face whatever strange moment happened before. He feels off, like a painting hung on a wall, skewed just a few centimetres right. Unbalanced.

 

Harry definitely doesn’t look like he means ill, but his apparent assumptions are quite vexing, especially after the talk he’s had today with his arsehole of a teacher who’d completely trashed his analysis of this week’s readings. Taking a drag, Louis tries to expel all of his feelings out with the smoke, eyelids parting to watch it curl in the glow of his desk lamp. He might be over-reacting, and maybe Harry didn’t mean it that way. Maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding.

 

He doesn’t know how long he spends there, eyes fixed on the grey rising clouds (it might be a second cigarette), the lulling sound of tires on wet asphalt outside reaching his ears, but his reverie is interrupted by a knock on his door. He grunts in answer and it opens slowly, carefully, to reveal Liam behind it.

 

“Hey there, y’alright?” Liam asks softly, like he knows Louis is not feeling his best. He probably does know - it’s Liam, he always knows - and maybe Zayn or Niall said something.  
  
“Mmmh mmh,” Louis answers behind his lips before letting out another puff, eyes darting to where Liam is standing, half inside the room, not sure if he’s allowed in. He always is, but Louis doesn’t tell him that now. Liam seems to make up his mind anyway, walking up to the bed to sit by his side.

 

“Dinner’s ready, gonna bake the two other pizzas while we eat the first. Sound good?” he says, and Louis makes another noncommittal noise, stomach slightly twisting at the idea of coming back down with the others, with Harry. Pretty Harry who doesn’t seem to expect very much of Louis.

 

“Harry seems nice, a bit shy maybe but that’s what Zayn said anyway,” Liam adds, and he’s definitely fishing for something. His eyes are looking at Louis like he’s searching, analysing his strange and drawn-in behaviour that is definitely unusual for him. Still, Louis can’t help the huff he lets out, and then rolls his eyes at himself, his inability to keep his thoughts to himself.

 

“Okay, so you’re not liking him very much, are you? What did he say?” Liam asks, his hand reaching out to pet Louis’s hair, a comforting gesture he’s always using on all of the boys when he tries to make them at ease. It works, most of the time, but Louis doesn’t know if he’s being over-sensitive right now and he doesn’t want to make it too hard on Harry who did seem nervous after all. So he shrugs in answer, and just says, “Just had a bad day, Mr. Henris was a jerk, and Harry made a small comment but you know me, I’m just not in the mood for banter right now.”

 

Liam nods then, all serious and brother bear like, and instead of answering he bends down to land a kiss square on Louis’s forehead.

 

“Alright, Lou. If you wanna go to bed early, or wanna stay alone tonight, you can, you know? But maybe being with us a bit will help?” he says then, and then waggles his eyebrows. “I mean, pizza, boys, and good movies. That’s right up your alley,” and the thing is, he’s right. So Louis smiles then, and nods.

 

“Sounds like you guys need me,” he answers, and Liam stands up, makes room for Louis to get up as well.

 

Together, they walk down the stairs and into the living room, welcomed by the sight of Harry setting the table, carrying all the cutlery in one of his hand, two glasses in the other. At the sound of their footsteps, he turns and his eyes go straight to Louis’s, and he looks a bit apologetic; a downturn to his mouth, a frown settled between his brows, and his forefinger tapping against the forks in a nervous tell. Louis feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards, and the line on Harry’s forehead smoothes down. He blinks, nods to himself, and put down what he’s carrying in its rightful place.

 

Zayn is watching them, careful, like a parent who wants their children to play nice, and tilts his head to Louis in a tiny, imperceptible grateful gesture. Louis tilts back, but it’s lost to Zayn when Liam comes up to him and kisses his temple. They only have eyes for each other, and it’d be revolting if it wasn’t so cute.

 

Niall is cutting the pizza on the oven, obviously. “Need a hand?” Louis questions, moving closer to him, and Niall turns his grin-plastered face to him. “Not really, Lou, just - can you bring that one to the table?” Louis takes the pizza that’s handed to him and brings it where it’s needed, entering Harry’s space to do so. He feels him tense just a tiny bit (there’s the finger tapping again), and is very careful about moving around him, about not touching him, unwilling to add to the boy’s nerves. He puts the pizza down on one side of the cramped table. They definitely moved it from its place against the wall and added a stool on one side, but even with that it feels a bit small.

 

He glances up at Harry and he’s already watching Louis, eyes attentive like he’s trying to read him. Louis gulps, and claps his hands loudly to shake the feeling that’s settling in his gut.

 

“Alright, lads, all set! Nialler, care to bring the other one?” he says, maybe a tad too loud in the otherwise pretty quiet room, but no one seems bothered. Liam and Zayn take the two spots that are next to each other, leaving the three remaining seats unclaimed.

 

“Where do you wanna sit, Harry?” he asks. Harry looks up at him again with that look, like he’s surprised Louis is addressing him at all, and really Louis doesn’t get what Harry’s deal is.

 

“Erm, I’ll just take this one? That okay?” his deep voice answers, pointing to the chair right in front of himself. “‘Course, mate” Louis quips back as he sits down, right hand slapping Niall’s that’s already reaching for the pizza.

 

The conversation flows freely while they eat, everyone chiming in about how their day went, most of them working on assignments or readings already. Louis would definitely be fully relaxing if it wasn’t for the gaze burning the side of his face almost constantly. Harry is staring at him, like he’s watching for something, and Louis feels as if he’s being observed, catalogued, all his words and mannerisms under a magnifier. He knows he’s blushing, feeling the warmth on his cheeks and tonight it can’t be blamed on any alcohol. When he glances at Harry, he just ducks his head or turns to another one of the boys, pretending he was never looking in the first place and it’d almost be believable if his actions weren’t so delayed. The whole thing has Louis feeling unsettled and self-conscious. Maybe Harry is waiting for him to fuck up somehow, to show something of himself that he could dissect. Louis never felt at ease under scrutiny.

 

So he decides on watching Harry right back and that seems to fluster him and make him stop. He listens to him too, telling them about his courses, his cat named Yolanda, discussing films he saw recently with Zayn, or a poem he read the other day. And maybe that’s why Louis feels strange: the on and off flow of Harry’s deep voice delivers little pieces of him that make him more of an enigma. The image Zayn had portrayed had been so lacking, he thinks now in hindsight, because that strange boy, who clearly hasn’t heard that staring wasn’t polite, is a mix of clashing elements.

 

Like how he is clearly in love with his pet, gushing about her without shame, or an overwhelmed student too, complaining about the dissertation he’s been working on, laughing at Niall’s crude jokes but then clashing with Zayn about a movie they both saw. And that’s where Louis feels it again, that wariness he had earlier right after Harry’s “I know”. Because Harry clearly doesn’t hold back when he speaks, stating that it’s “utterly stupid to think that Kechiche treated the actresses fairly, come on Zayn don’t be an idiot” and somehow Zayn is laughing instead of being offended.

 

What he sees then is that Harry must realise it too when he goes too far, because his lips shut firmly, set in a dark line. His eyes lower and his hands are back together, wringing and wringing and wringing. Louis’s own make an aborted movement, but Harry notices it, gaze shooting up to meet his and he looks like a child who’s been scolded. Louis doesn’t get it.

 

“Harry, come on, don’t be grumpy, you’ll scare the children,” Zayn’s voice cuts in, still chuckling. “Agree to disagree, yeah?” he adds with a smile, and that seems to reassure Harry enough to stop his fingers from twitching.

 

“Okay,” he says, so small it’s barely audible, before clearing his throat.

 

There is a small silence after that that Liam breaks with no effort, as he always does, by asking, “All done?”, directing their attention to the empty plates and pizza dishes. When everyone makes a noise of assent, he gets up to clear the table with a, “Should move this party to the sofas then,” and Louis joins him to help. In a few moments, the furniture is back to its original place thanks to Niall and Harry, and Zayn goes to his and Liam’s room to fetch the TV they’d put on wheels to move it freely from one place to another. He pushes it into the living room, right in front of the main sofa, everyone migrating back to the sitting area. Louis goes to his designated spot: an old armchair next to the window where he can smoke without annoying Liam or Niall. Zayn takes the folded plaids from the loveseat in the corner before passing one to Louis and one to Niall and Harry sat on the sofa, finally settling in Liam’s lap, covering them with another one.

 

They all agree on watching Stranger Things, which might not be a good idea since they’ve all seen it already and no one can refrain from commenting. It feels easy, conversation rising back again, everyone bouncing off of each other. Harry fits right in, there is no denying it.

 

When Zayn flings his cigarette pack to him, Louis gets one out, opens the window with one hand, lights the end with the other. He inhales, smoke curling in his mouth, settling in, making his head fuzzier than it already is. He feels eyes on him again. He turns then and Harry’s staring at his hands, fixing them with a look like a cat watches his prey. Louis can almost see his pupils dilating, following the twitch of his knuckles.

 

“Something the matter, Harry?” he whispers, low and only for him to hear, and Harry’s irises snap back to him, impossibly green in the harsh glow of the blue-lit screen. He shakes his head then, staring a second more, then turning back to the TV and if Louis is not mistaken, the tip of his ear seems darker. He doesn’t look Louis’ way again.

 

When Harry goes to leave around 1 a.m., Liam makes a fuss, asking him if he doesn’t want to stay the night instead.

 

“Erm, no, that’s okay, I can definitely get home. It’s a 15 minutes walk, tops,” Harry answers while his hands wrap his scarf around his neck. “And I gotta feed Yol, too,” he adds.

 

“Wait, 15 minutes? Where do you live?” Niall quips from his spot on the sofa, bundled up in the plaid like a burrito.

 

“Northpoint Square, like, right after the skate park.”

 

“Really?” Zayn asks “That’s almost next door! Lou and I have been there a few times actually.”

 

“That we did, though don’t think we will again for a while. My knees definitely vote against,” Louis smiles. “Wait, Harry, how do you go to uni? Never saw you around but we should have similar commutes though?” he adds, tone curious. He would definitely remember meeting Harry.

 

Somehow, the question makes Harry stop on his way to grab his bag and his eyes go to Louis’, wide as saucers. There’s a strange, panicked air to him and his fingers twist on his ring again.

 

“Erm…” he hesitates, shouldering his backpack on, eyes snapping to the floor as he’s making his way to the door. “I just- I… Uber?” He winces at that. “Sorry, guys, gotta go. It was lovely meeting you, I had a wonderful time!” he rambles on, faster than he's talked all evening, all while rushing out of the living room.

 

Louis sends a quick look to Zayn, who looks just as lost as him before seeing Harry to the door.

 

What the hell.

 

***

 

It’s been a week since “Dinner with Harry”, as the boys have started calling it, and Louis is a grown man, he can admit he’s been thinking about him.

 

It would have been pretty hard not to with the way Niall has been asking Zayn about when “Harry will come out and play again” like they’re all back in elementary school. Zayn usually shrugs it off, which results in Niall emitting a high pitched whine and Liam smiling at them fondly. Louis doesn’t know how to feel about him. It’s as if he’s caught a virus, something that burns very, very quietly in the back of his mind. Something that's overly aware that he actually has classes on the same campus as Harry, lives in the same neighbourhood, that they share the same environment.   


His brain keeps coming up with glimpses of short chocolate curls disappearing in the hallways, or burning green eyes watching him on the bus, and it’s becoming slightly tiring to try and tamp those down when he knows perfectly well that they’re just a figment of his over-excited imagination. What’s the most frustrating thing of all though is that he doesn’t even understand why he’s so fixated on Harry when their interactions had been so weird from the get-go. Sure, the boy is a pretty lad, but his behaviour towards Louis was a tad intense and confusing, and he isn't sure if that’s a good thing or not.

 

So, really, there is no need to think about Harry the way he’s been catching himself doing sometimes (every day). And yet even now, walking over to the library at 3 a.m. on a Friday night, Louis is indeed thinking about him.

 

He’s taking his frustration out on the library’s gates by pushing his card way harder than is necessary against the glass reader. That earns him a glare from the watchman so he bites down on his lip with a little shrug, trying to look apologetic, but it doesn’t seem to be working out too great judging by the look the man gives him. Louis just starts to climb up the main staircase, his bag weighing heavily on his shoulder.

 

If there is one thing Louis loves about UCL, it’s the main library, and especially at night.

There’s something surreal about it. It’s in the soft silence that’s emphasized by the lights and the even glow they cast on everything. It’s in the creak of a door opening somewhere distant, maybe on the floor above, as if the whole building is filled with shy ghosts. It’s in the drawings on the walls, painting the rooms like a museum, and the books belonging right alongside them. It’s in the majesty of it all, such a contrast with the atmosphere that inhabits it. Louis’s eyes land on the sculpture that stands in the Flaxman Gallery, gaze studying St Michael’s face, then the dome crowning the building. He feels his limbs relaxing, ease flowing through his veins.

 

With a hint of a smile, he turns right, heading for his favourite nook in the French rooms that are always empty this late at night, the other students preferring to hide deeper down the hallways or even in the upper floors. Louis pushes the second door, readying himself to face hours of revising and writing in the hard wooden chairs, and stops a few steps inside.

 

There’s someone there. And that someone is singing.

 

It’s definitely French, and that’s a bit easy, French singing in the French rooms and Louis would have rolled his eyes already at the cliché if the deep baritone wasn’t so striking, filling the otherwise silent space like a strange and otherworldly illusion.

 

_Je ne tiens pas debout, le ciel coule sur mes mains._

 

The voice shines, curling around the shelves and the furniture, making the room vibrate with a strange energy. The thing is, Louis feels like he knows the tune and the notes hang in the air, weirdly familiar, the library tensed around an uninterrupted long note.

 

It’s something he heard on the radio, but not exactly. Louis strains his ear.

 

_Pile sur un des bas côtés comme des origamis, le bras tendu, pareil cassé, tout n'est qu'épis et éclis._

 

That he knows. _Tilted_ , Christine  & The Queens. Now Louis’s curious, body wrapping around a bookcase to peek at the elusive singer. And of course, _of course_ , Harry is right there, his back facing Louis, his hips gently swaying to the music pouring from his earbuds like a dandelion in the breeze. Harry’s gaze is focused on the shelves in front of him, one hand reaching out behind him to pick a book from the small pile on the table and place it at its intended spot, marked by two fingers of the other hand. It’s his voice, that plush velvet rising in the quiet room, charging the air with a supernatural thrum. He’s alone, aloof, blending in with the library as if he’s always been there, as if he belongs, putting away the last of his books.

 

So, naturally albeit unwillingly, Louis disturbs him.  His foot moves forwards, just a few millimetres and yet it makes the board creak, barely louder than Harry’s voice but he hears it nonetheless and turns completely to Louis, surprise written all over his face. Surprise, then something else, something like embarrassment. He stops singing immediately and tugs at his earbuds’ chord to free his ears, eyes locked on the floor.

 

The silence is deafening and Louis doesn't know how to fill it.

 

“I… erm…” he tries at first, words falling flat from his tongue. When Harry doesn't move, he goes on. “I really like that song. Didn't know there was a full French version though.”

 

He sees it from the corner of his eyes. Harry’s fingers tangling together in front of him, his thumb rubbing repetitively on his ring finger and Harry’s gaze still hasn’t left the floor even if his shoulders have lost a touch of their tightness.

 

“Also, you sing pretty well, though I didn’t expect anyone to do that in there… Or at this time of night, actually,” Louis adds. “What are you doing here at this hour, mate?” he asks, taking a step closer to put his bag on the chair in front of him, gaze searching Harry’s face.

 

“Could ask you the same question,” is the answer, and if he wasn’t looking for it Louis would have missed the furrow of the brows or how nails are suddenly digging in the skin of Harry’s hand.

 

“Well, that’s fair,” Louis continues, disregarding the tone or the sting it would normally cause. “I’m actually here to finish a paper that’s been kicking my ass for two weeks now. It’s for my Sociology of Childhood class and any other time I’d love it but I haven’t been able to just sit down and get at it, you know?” When he looks up from where he’s been pulling his stuff out of his backpack, Louis meets Harry’s eyes that have unstuck themselves from the ground and it shouldn’t make him feel pleased, but it does.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Harry replies, voice deep, his gaze skipping from Louis’s face to his hands that are still putting his things on the table. “You’re settling here?” he asks. There’s a slight wonder in his voice, as if he’d expected Louis to run the other way after finding him there. Louis is nothing if not a determined man, so he sets his laptop on the table with an air of finality, arm widening in a big movement to proudly show what he’s done with a simple “yep” coming out of his mouth, the pop of it loud and definitive.

 

Harry is blinking a bit rapidly for Louis's taste. He pulls the chair out next to him and gesture to it.

 

“Keep me company?” he offers, head tilted, and Harry does the same in answer before sitting down, gaze lost on Louis’s face. With a satisfied smile, Louis turns to the screen of his computer and starts working on his essay.  


Harry stops staring after a few minutes, seemingly getting used to Louis’ presence in his space, and pulls out a notebook and a pen from the rucksack that was lying on the ground. They work in companionable silence for more than half an hour; the soft whirr of Louis’s computer and the clicks of the keyboard mix together with the gentle scratch of Harry’s pen on the paper, the occasional page turning adding to the background soundtrack. When Louis chances a glance Harry’s way, he’s welcomed with a focused expression, his brows barely furrowed, eyes staring straight at the paragraph he’s working on, his bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth, absent-mindedly chewing on it and then pulling it free. He looks a tiny bit pouty, the same expression on his face that used to show on Lottie’s during her maths homework. It pulls a smile out of Louis and he decides that they both need a small break. He stands up and Harry startles, suddenly looking up at him with an air of absolute puzzlement.

 

“Hey, Imma go get a coffee at the machine down in the basement. Want anything?” Louis says softly, not wanting to disturb the quiet peace further.

 

“Erm, uh… I…” Harry looks like he’s waking up from a sort of trance or shaking off a spell, all dizzy looking and Louis can admit he’s finding it a bit cute. “Maybe a cappuccino?” he adds, tone rising as if he’s questioning his own choice.

  
“Alright!” Louis answers, and when Harry makes a move towards his bag as if to get some change out, he places a warm hand on his shoulder to stop him. “No worries, I got it,” he grins. “You keep writing, or take a break, listen to some music. We’ve been at it for a while,” he adds, fingers lingering on the soft cloth of Harry’s plaid shirt. He’s looking at him as if Louis is both his saviour and his doom, a hint of his intensity from the week before, so Louis just leaves, calling a last “be right back” behind his shoulder.

 

The watchman hasn’t moved when he walks out of the library and he’s still there when Louis is trying to smuggle back two pretty big and very forbidden cups of coffee. Somehow he manages to succeed in hiding them from sight even though that entails balancing one of them precariously on the nook of his elbow. He feels like he’s run a marathon when he finally puts them down on his and Harry’s table.

 

Harry apparently followed Louis’s advice and stopped writing as he is now slumped in the uncomfortable chair, earbuds back in, eyes closed, almost looking convincingly asleep if it wasn’t for his fingers tapping the rhythm of the song he’s listening to on the wood. With a smile plastered on his face, Louis sits down and proceeds to steal one of the earbuds to plop it in his own ear.

 

Harry stares straight at him once more, taken aback, and Louis tries to sweeten the deal by pushing the cappuccino his way with his best innocent smile. It seems to be enough to distract Harry from the robbery; he takes his cup and opens the lid, blows some air on the piping hot liquid and takes a sip, eyes squeezing shut in delight. He emits a sound too, something between a pleased sigh and a grateful moan, and that has Louis’s shutting his own eyelids for a different reason.

 

“That’s not Christine anymore, is it?” he notes, mind begging to focus on something other than the graphic pictures its conjuring. There’s a hum coming from Harry, then a small “no”, then nothing else when Louis expected him to expand.

 

It’s a man singing, voice raspy and harsh intertwining with a piano and nothing else. Somehow, Louis feels it; rawness and melancholia, sadness and resignation. There’s something in the melody that sounds like grains of sand falling, time passing. Then it’s another song, piano and a male voice again, but this time there’s an English accent, and it brings Louis back to the old living room with his girls, watching Moulin Rouge for the 150th time because Fizzy had found her new obsession. He opens his eyes at the recognition, and hums unconsciously before sipping at his own coffee.

 

When he looks up, Harry is looking at him from the corner of his eyes, irises glimmering with curiosity. “You know that one?” he asks him, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Louis nods. “My sisters were big Moulin Rouge fans. Pretty sure they still are actually.” Their eyes meet when Harry follows with a small “what about you?” and Louis eyes crinkle at the memory.

 

“Oh, mate, I was the worst, this one had me in tears every single time. It’s so fucking tragic, I always forget she’s gonna die even though he actually tells you from the get-go. Romantic movies just turn me into an emotional wreck, it’s not pretty,” he states, smiling into his cup, and glancing at Harry he sees a matching grin painted on the boy’s lips. “It’s no secret either, the boys literally have to hold me at the end of The Notebook because I’m crying so hard,” he adds, and Harry’s smile gets wider and Louis feels like he’s glowing from the inside, a firefly nestled in his stomach.

 

“I’m the same,” Harry says, lips still pulled upwards, curling at the corner. “It’s gonna get very ugly in December too, with Love Actually and all.” His voice is gentle, losing bits and bits of its uncertainty with every word and having it all to himself makes Louis want to do something stupid like ruffle Harry’s hair or poke at the hint of a dimple that’s peeking on his cheek.

 

He settles for a simple, “It’s okay, I’ll lend you Niall for that one. He’s the best hugger.” He sees Harry’s pupils settling on him, the cat-like expression of the other night filling his face again. Louis feels under scrutiny, but this time he doesn’t feel on the edge about it. He just looks back with a soft, crooked grin instead, not shying away from Harry’s stare.

 

“Alright, deal,” Harry says after a few seconds pass. It sounds like a small victory. They go back to their respective work after that, earbuds still nestled in and allowing Harry’s music to flow freely between them both. Sometimes Harry will hum along and those songs are Louis’ favourite.

 

The next time Louis looks at the time, it’s well past 5:30 a.m. and Harry lets out a long yawn right beside him, limbs stretching out on top and underneath the table, impossibly long. His eyes are a bit unfocused and the way he’s wetting his mouth again makes Louis think of a sleepy kitten. His fingers move without him thinking, wrapping around Harry’s forearm who blinks sluggishly at him.

 

“Time to go back home, don’t you think? It’s too early to deal with any of this,” he says, gesturing at the open essay file on his screen which is now on the verge of being done. “Come on, our beds are calling us, young Harold,” he adds, thumb absent-mindedly stroking the fabric under his fingertips.

 

Harry nods slowly, eyes locked on Louis’ hand. Louis removes it, feeling a bit self-conscious, and starts clearing the space of his things, Harry doing the same on his side.

 

When they step outside, the sky is lighter, a shade away from the night’s ink; the streets are already busy with traffic lights and noise, London waking up way before dawn.

 

“I’m taking the 29. What about you?” Louis asks, head half buried in his scarf and hands fisted in his pockets to fight the cold. Harry shifts on his feet, face turned to the ground again, unsure all over again, the quiet hours spent together erased all at once by a simple question.

 

“Same, I guess,” he says without looking at Louis at first, and when he doesn’t answer he looks up once, quick, like he’s afraid to get caught.

 

“Alright then, let’s go.”

 

They walk in silence to the bus stop. It feels almost tense, as if they’re back in the flat, back to tiptoeing around each other, and while Louis chances a glance or two Harry’s way, the boy resolutely stares at his shoes or straight ahead.

 

It’s a weird dance they’re doing, Louis thinks. But he’s lived with moody teenagers, defused terrible temper tantrums, helped raise toddlers that loved wrecking havoc and his already large patience and desire to understand seem to find new infinite limits where Harry’s concerned. So he just lets out a little sigh, allows his arm to brush against Harry’s, and keeps walking until they reach the stop and finally sit down in the bus after waiting in the cold for a few minutes. They’re sat at the back, pressed up next to each other, and Louis feels like sleeping for a few centuries, dreams about sinking into the comfy warmth next to him. But Harry is still silent except for the occasional sniffle or sigh and it just won’t do.

 

Louis reaches into his bag to get out his earbuds and plugs them in his phone, finger scrolling through his music for the song he’s looking for, and there it is, right in the middle of all the OSTs. He pokes at Harry with his fingers before handing him one of the buds and taps on the screen. The notes trickle down slowly, played by a music box, then the flute joins, followed by the singer, and Harry’s eyes widen while Louis awkwardly and approximately mouths the words.

 

_Je me souviens il me semble des jeux qu’on inventait ensemble. Je retrouve dans un sourire la flamme de mes souvenirs._

 

It works.

 

“That’s from Anastasia, isn't it?” Harry asks, his first words since they left UCL. His gaze drills into Louis’, and he smiles in answer, nodding.

 

“Yeah, my mum found the VHS in some vintage shop and didn’t notice it was the French version at first. She bought us the regular one like a week after. But that song... I just love that version somehow,” he answers, staring emptily at the front of the bus. “I think it just reminds me of those afternoons with the girls, where we’d all bundle up on the sofa and spend the day away watching movies. Anastasia was our favourite, especially for Christmas.”

 

He feels something on his forearm then. It’s Harry’s fingers, clutched tightly in the fabric of his jacket and he’s staring again, analyzing, eyes cataloguing every single one of Louis’s features. He lets out a quiet mumble, something that sounds like “thank you” and squeezes one last time before letting his hand drop.

 

They watch the streets passing by, the people on the pavement turning into grey blurs, random music from Louis’s phone playing. They’re quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable or tense, not anymore.

 

“I’m the next stop,” Louis says, and Harry just nods. “Thank you for the company tonight, I really enjoyed it,” he adds, and that earns a small private smile and a “so did I” from him. “By the way,” Louis adds before standing, “Niall is asking after you. Shouldn’t keep him waiting too long before visiting again, you know.”

 

Harry looks taken aback, and before he can come up with a response, Louis exits with a “see you soon Harry”. If there’s a spring in Louis’s step on his short walk home, no one is there to think anything of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter :
> 
> Christine & the Queens - Christine  
> Renault - Mistral Gagnant  
> Rufus Wainwright - La Complainte de La Butte


	3. Ne parlent que de toi

Harry is so fucked.

 

It seems that way at least because Yolanda has been retching and throwing up for the entire morning and it doesn’t seem like she’s feeling a lot better. And Harry truly loves her and wants to pamper her and hand feed her and whisper sweet nothings in her furry ears until she feels better. The thing is, he’s supposed to take an exam in two hours and can’t leave his baby alone. His hand rests on Yolanda’s back, sometimes moving to pet her soothingly, but his eyes are frantic, trying to find any form of help or answer around the small room. A soft and tiny meow has him refocusing his attention on her and Harry almost feels like crying being so helpless.

 

“Shhh bébé, ma princesse… shhh, ça va aller” 

 

His phone dings with an incoming text and he reaches out to grab it. It’s Zayn, asking him how he’s doing and Harry might have been slightly avoiding him after the chance encounter with Louis in the library. Also known as that moment when Harry found out Louis was not just unearthly beautiful, but also friendly and sweet and kind enough to try and make Harry comfortable at all costs, even after several fuck-ups on his part. It doesn’t mean any good, because Harry had already been crushing on the stranger from the bus. But now, Louis’s personality is giving Harry feelings. Maybe it was when Louis had settled on Harry’s table like he’d belonged there all along. Maybe it was when he went and brought him a cup of coffee, looking like a spy back from secret a mission. Maybe it was when Louis talked about his sisters, love sparkling in his eyes, lit up from the inside by a blazing sun. Maybe it was when Louis noticed Harry feeling like crap and fixed it, simply by being his generous, lovely self. In any case, it was embarrassingly soon and surely unrequited, unwanted. Mortifying.

 

So, Harry did what he thought was best. He didn’t set foot in the library for more than a week, didn’t wake up at 8:45 a.m. on Monday and Thursday to catch a glimpse of Louis on the bus, didn’t go to the Film Society meeting on Friday evening to avoid Zayn and lied in response to his worried text asking him where he was, saying he had come up with a stomach bug and sadly wouldn’t be able to join him and the boys again for a chill night that Saturday. He felt guilty after that last one, but it was still better than the overwhelming nervousness he felt at the thought of seeing Louis again and force himself to contain whatever it was that was growing inside his lungs (something akin to bushes of blue dainty flowers; myosotis).

 

He’s typing his answer slowly, refusing to lift his left hand from Yolanda’s fur, telling Zayn about the situation he’s in. He doesn’t expect the next message asking him his exact address, or the one after he’s sent it, simply asking to “hold tight, young one, help is on the way.” He stares at Yolanda for almost a good five minutes, silently interrogating her, gauging whether she knows anything about what’s going on, but she’s found innocent after a feeble meow and a few sleepy blinks, too cute and out of it to be part of any weird conspiracy. After some more sweet talk and words of encouragement to her, Harry bundles her in her favourite blanket, the lilac one that smells like him, and tries to clean up the mess that has taken place in the main room and the kitchenette.

 

He’s been going at it for a little while when the doorbell rings. The noise is sudden, unexpected and if Harry remembers well, he’s never heard it outside of Gemma’s planned visits. No one from uni comes to see him, no one even knows where he lives.

 

Well, no one apart from Zayn.

 

However, when Harry opens the door, broom in hand, his hair in disarray and his clothes even more so, it’s not Zayn standing on the doormat. It’s Louis. 

 

Harry closes the door.

 

There’s a noise coming from the other side now, from Louis’s side, and it definitely sounds like barely muffled laughter. Then, there’s a knock, soft, knuckles dragging against the wood. Harry takes a step back; this isn’t happening.

 

“Harry, can I come in?” Louis says, his voice still perfectly discernible through the door. “I’m here for Yolanda?” he adds, voice rising, a hint of uncertainty shining through and somehow that’s what makes Harry’s hand move back on the door handle and twist it open. Louis is still there, right on the other side of the door but this time there’s a crooked grin plastered on his face and one hand scratching the back of his skull, looking a bit relieved and pleased and so, so lovely. Harry doesn’t even know how he managed to survive without breathing the same air as him for a day, especially for more than a week. He knows he’s probably gaping a bit and that he still hasn’t said a word, but somehow Louis is on his doorstep and he’s more than dumbfounded.

 

“I… How… Hi?” he manages to get out. That seems to make Louis’s smile grow, eyes crinkling up, and he answers with a greeting of his own. 

 

“Sorry to barge in, but Zayn told me about Yolanda. My only afternoon lecture got cancelled so I’m all free and... I can watch over her if you want?” Louis adds, “that way you can go to your exam.”

 

Harry’s eyes are stinging a bit, like someone blew air right on them to make them water. He feels really stupid, and even more grateful. “That’s so, so nice of you, Louis,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do, you’re saving my life. Or Yol’s. Probably both

,” he adds, opening the door fully and letting Louis inside the flat. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Louis casting curious glances around the room, his hands wrapped low around the straps of his backpack. He’s wearing a beanie and an oversized scarf again, face peeking out in between, poorly concealed interest painted all over it. Harry’s heart is lurching between his ribs in a painful throb, and the flowers in his lungs are expanding impossibly, blooming into the light of this human sun. 

 

Yolanda lets out a pitiful mewl from where she’s bundled up on the sofa; they both turn and walk up to her.

 

“Princesse,” Harry lets out without meaning to. “Tu te sens mieux?” he says, crouching to her level to lovingly pet her head. She’s pushing back against it and there’s some force to it for the first time since the morning. “Ca a l’air,” he adds while rubbing right behind her ears, her favourite spot, before leaning in to touch her forehead with his. When he backs up, Louis is looking at him strangely, two blots of  colour on his cheeks. Before Harry has time to second-guess himself, Louis is speaking up.

 

“She’s an absolute beauty. Can I?” he asks, eyes skipping to Yolanda who’s watching him, curious. Harry nods and Louis presents his hand to her, letting her sniff it and lick it before petting her head; she seems content enough if the soft purr coming from her is any indication. At that, Harry witnesses something life-changing: Louis cooing over his cat.

 

“Aw, look at you, darling. Have you been feeling poorly? I’m gonna take care of you while your dad has to go out, alright princess?” Louis says, tone adoring. “Alright with you, Harry?” he asks then, turning his head to address him and Harry can only nod, throat suddenly gone dry.

 

“Sure. My exam ends at 6 p.m., so I’ll be back around 6:30 or around then. Does that work for you?” he asks, and Louis’s smile answers for him. He stands up, moving to gather his stuff and shove it all in his backpack. “She already ate a bit after the last puking phase so she should be fine. Her food and water bowls are right there. That’s her favourite blanket she’s in so she’ll probably want to stay in there for a while. Help yourself to whatever is in the cupboards or the fridge if you’re hungry and all,” he rambles on. He’s trying very hard not to think about how Louis is going to stay in his flat, unsupervised, for several hours while he’s out to take a Literature exam. 

 

“Is there anything I can help with before I go?” he asks.

 

“Erm… I took my computer to work for a bit, do you have WiFi?” Louis says in answer, crouched right in front of Yolanda, one hand caressing her back. The sight twists Harry’s stomach, words hard to get out. “Yeah, of course. It’ll be the first one on the list, password is… password is harryisanerd2017,” he stammers, blush burning his cheeks and Louis’s cackle is loud, hand lifting off Yolanda for the first time.

 

“Excuse me,” Louis says, tears glinting on the corners of his eyes. “But why the hell is that your password?” His hands are clutching the sofa in front of him, saving him from toppling over with the force of his laughter. 

 

“My sister was the one to set the broadband up, so she picked the password,” Harry forces out with a little shrug. “Never came around to changing it.” Louis’s laughter is subsiding, and he’s looking at Harry with uncontrollable mirth. 

 

“I’m really glad you didn’t.” 

 

Harry’s stomach is filling up with something weird, something that definitely feels like courage or foolish bravery. He grabs a post-it note on the fridge and scribbles down his number on it, then handing it out to Louis with a small, “text me if you need anything,” before planting a kiss on Yolanda’s forehead. He opens the door, calls a last “thank you again, I’ll be back as soon as I can” with a bravado he definitely doesn’t feel. Louis waving to him with one hand and petting Yolanda with the other is the last thing he sees before the door shuts on him.

 

Harry does manage to get to his exam on time and feels pretty good about his chances of passing when he gets out. He almost forgot about what was waiting for him at home but is quickly reminded when he turns his phone back on. There’s a text from an unknown number, a picture of Yolanda sleeping on someone’s knees with a simple “all good here, hope it’s going well”. Something’s fluttering in his tummy, like dragonfly wings, soaring in sync with his speeding heartbeat. It doesn’t calm down on his way to the bus stop, or even once he’s sat inside, and even less so when he’s walking to his front porch, fingers fidgeting with the keys lying in the palm of his hand. His legs feel a bit weak climbing up the stairs, digits a bit wobbly when he tries to unlock his flat’s door. For some reason, he’s scared of what he’ll find, of whether or not Louis already left, not even knowing which one of the options he’d like better.

 

The smell hits him first. It smells homely, like someone has just been cooking. It also sounds like there’s a film playing somewhere, and it’s joined by the noise of cutlery knocking against something, small dings filling the air. Harry can see Louis’s upper half from where he’s standing; he’s still sat on the sofa, but this time his computer is open on the small table right in front of him, Yolanda plopped down on his lap and covered in the same blanket she was bundled in earlier. He’s eating something from a bowl, probably curry from what Harry’s nose can tell. The sight makes him feel warm all over, fueling on the domesticity it evokes. He wouldn’t mind coming home to it every day. He watches Louis, how he eats from the spoon with the tiniest bites, lips pursed, eyes completely focused on his screen.

 

It’s Yolanda who spots him first, her small head turning to the front door and, after a few sleepy blinks, she meows at him and wiggles as if to stand up. Louis watches her then, and follows her gaze to him.

“Oh, hi, welcome back. Didn’t notice you standing here. Want some curry? I made some for both of us, I got a bit hungry,” he says, all crinkled eyes and kind smile and Harry wants to melt into a puddle of goo, right there, on the floor, no matter how messy it’d be to clean up. He clears his throat and tries to speak up, give an answer to the wonderful angel sat in his living room.

 

“That’s… thank you so much, I’d love to try some.” Louis gestures to the pot that’s on the stove and Harry moves to get a serving, limbs heavy with wonder. When he’s done, he goes to the sofa, standing awkwardly, not knowing where to sit until Louis pats the spot next to him without even looking. The whole thing feels like a dream and yet it’s real, Yolanda head-butting his hand to get him to pet her, a soft purr coming from her belly.

 

“How was the test, did it go okay?” Louis asks, face turned towards him. Harry feels a bit overwhelmed, but he pushes through it and nods, unwilling to embarass himself once more.

 

“Yeah, I think I did well. What about you, Yol wasn’t too much of a bother?” he answers with a head tilt to the furball now nested against his thigh.

 

“Absolutely not, she was a doll,” Louis says, looking at her with fondness written all over his face, gaze impossibly soft. “She’s been cute and cuddly the entire time. I think she’s feeling better too, she managed to drink quite a lot and even ate a little bit of her food” he adds. Harry lets out a relieved sigh, fingers burying in Yolanda’s hair as she keeps rumbling with happiness. 

 

“Honestly, I can’t thank you enough, Louis, I-” he tries, but is quickly interrupted by Louis’s hand on his thigh and, looking up, blue, blue eyes pinning him on the spot, a vivid mirror of the first time he saw them.

 

“Haz, there’s no need to thank me,” Louis says, nickname falling out of his lips as easy as breathing, yet it makes Harry’s own stop, air caught in his throat and unable to get out. “Besides, I needed to get out of the flat. It was Liam’s free afternoon and he was trying to get me to accompany him to the gym,” Louis adds with a grimace. Harry lets out a giggle and Louis’s mouth untwists, child-like frown turning into a bright grin. 

 

Bringing a spoonful of curry to his mouth, Harry tastes it tongue first. It’s delicious. He’s moaning before he can stop himself, and takes another bite under Louis’s heavy gaze.

 

“Wow, this is so fucking good. I forgot I had curry paste in there.”

 

“Curry paste, coconut milk and plenty of veggies. Everything you need for a good and heartwarming meal,” Louis says, eyes still fixed on Harry’s mouth before snapping up to his own. Harry can feel himself blushing, but for once Louis looks compromised as well, head turning back to the screen before busying himself again with his own plate.

 

They eat in silence for a while, watching Come Dine With Me reruns on Louis’s computer, occasionally making comments that make each other laugh, Yolanda nestled between them on the sofa. It’s nice, easy in a way Harry hasn’t experienced in a while; all worries have fled his thoughts, leaving only peace and joy behind. He’s comfortable, right there, with Louis by his side, making a remark about how the Wednesday host’s activity is even more boring than a 7 p.m. lecture. 

 

At some point, Louis starts swiping his forefinger in his bowl, catching the last of the curry he missed with the spoon, before sticking it in his mouth, lips tightly wrapped around it. Harry watches him, feeling completely out of his depth, brain unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. Louis must sense him staring because he’s soon turning to him, finger still in his mouth, with a questioning expression. “I’m a bowl licker, Harry. Be grateful I’m not actually licking it clean and being polite enough to use my finger,” he says then with a smirk, and Harry grins back, trying desperately to chase away the picture the words are conjuring in his mind.

 

After a while, Louis speaks up again, hands intertwining above the plaid they’ve put over their legs.

“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to meet again at the library? I have to prepare a presentation and I wanted to work there a bit tomorrow… or Friday, actually. You could meet me there after the Film Society meeting. It’s on Friday, right?” he rambles on, sounding almost nervous but that’s absurd. 

 

Harry just stares, eyes wide, and nods his ascent. “Sure, I’d love to. Friday sounds good.”

 

Louis is shining, there’s no other way to describe it, all teeth on display, eyes almost disappearing he’s smiling so much. “Alright,” he lets out, voice a bit airy and light, eyes locked on Harry’s. He gets up then, picking up their bowls and heading towards the sink, intent on washing them up before Harry can protest. It takes him a minute or two during which Harry carefully watches him, takes him in fully without feeling scared of being caught. The moonlight is seeping through the window, clashing with the glow of the table lamp on Louis’s features. He stands out, shadows carving his face in bluish tones, the muscles of his back dancing under his t-shirt, tattooed arms flexing with his careful movements. The sight is ethereal, makes Harry’s heart clench, his throat work to swallow the emotion threatening to spill out of his mouth. When Louis turns back, Harry hopes his face is blank, or at least as inconspicuous as possible.

 

“I should probably head back, it’s getting a bit late,” Louis says, leaning against the wall, gaze blanketing over Harry and Yolanda that has fallen into a peaceful slumber. 

 

“Sure,” Harry agrees, mouth a bit dry while watching Louis gather his belongings that have somehow been spread all around the room, looking at home right there. He stands up, opening the door for Louis, not knowing how to say goodbye. 

 

Louis seems to know how; he steps into Harry’s space, hugging him with one arm, his face hooked above his shoulder for barely a second that sends Harry into overdrive, his senses filled again with Louis’s scent - spices and wood. Louis backs away, too soon, and waves goodbye, letting out a soft “see you Friday, Haz,” before walking down the stairs, leaving Harry dizzy with longing.

 

Harry is so fucked.

 

***

 

Thursday flows by without a hitch, even though Harry has to stop himself from taking the same bus as Louis again. He misses sleepy, soft and cuddly Louis; the way the morning light shifts in his hair and his eyes, the sluggish bat of his lashes. But now that he knows him, knows what it’s like to have the man’s attention or his smiles directed at him, not being noticed would be crushing. So he cherishes the memories, keeps replaying them in his head during the day. Tries to calm the butterflies awakening at the thought of seeing him the following day, smile hidden in Yolanda’s fur - back in Harry’s bed now that she’s feeling much better, as if Louis’s presence had worked a magic of its own.

 

Then, Friday. Harry’s classes go by slowly, the evening taking its sweet, sweet time to show its head. It feels like the day started eons ago when Harry finally heads to the Film Society meeting room. He sits down next to Zayn with a long-suffering sigh which brings a smile to the man’s lips.

 

“Well damn, that was a big one. Don’t worry, mate, it’s the end of the week in less than two hours, you can do it,” Zayn says, his hand gently patting Harry’s shoulder. “Yolanda feeling good? Louis said she looked better when he left the other day.”

 

Louis.

 

“Oh, yeah she definitely is,” Harry answers. “He’s been the best with her and she’s up and running again... I didn’t even thank you for sending him, I’m sorry,” he adds, feeling a wave of guilt washing over him.

 

“Don’t worry, between that and the exam, you had a lot on your plate. Glad we could help even a bit,” Zayn says, tone genuine and gentle. “Also, Niall has been asking about you and whining all over the place, he wants you back at ours and soon,” he states, a hint of laughter in his voice, and the new information makes Harry feel warm right at his core, heart lodged in his throat.

 

“That’s… that’s really nice of him.” The silence stretches a bit, untense, simple, while the other members start to fill in the room. 

 

Zayn cuts it again. “We’re spending Halloween night at ours, just gonna watch some horror flicks and eat our weight in junk food. Would all love to have you over if you’re game? And that includes a sleepover this time, Liam insists.”

 

It sounds lovely, being around the boys again. Lovely and fun, a welcoming home in the usually lonely life he leads in London. And he did feel like he was missing out last Saturday, watching some stupid TV show on his own while he could have been with them, depriving himself.

 

“Actually, I’d love that,” he answers, earning a big smile from Zayn, eyes creasing with the force of it, and it makes him beam back. They chat for a few minutes, telling each other about their week, waiting on the meeting to really begin because apparently, for the first time ever, Thomas is late. He comes in half-running, utterly dishevelled and already starting to talk before he’s even taken off his coat, eager to catch up on the delay. Harry sees Zayn’s eyebrows rising in sync with the corners of his lips and he slaps a hand on his mouth with a giggle before Zayn has time to open it and say whatever snarky remark he was preparing.

 

Time goes by less slowly now that Zayn is with him, and halfway through the meeting, Harry receives a text from Louis.

 

_ Still up for the library session? :) _

 

His knee starts bouncing up and down while he taps out an answer, and he feels himself grin like a fool.

 

_ Yes! Where do we meet? _

 

He barely registers Zayn’s leaning in, curious eyes squinting to decipher what’s on the screen.

 

_ Our spot’s good?? _

 

Our. Harry’s stomach is floating somewhere inside himself, but it’s definitely not tethered anymore.

 

“Who is it?” Zayn whispers, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “You seem a bit distracted, love.”

 

_ Yes, perfect. _

 

Harry turns to Zayn feeling a bit unfocused but trying to collect himself, appear as innocent and unbothered as possible. “Louis. We’re meeting at the library after this to work a bit,” he says, voice even, smooth. Good.

 

Zayn looks a bit taken aback somehow, so maybe that wasn’t as neutral as he’d hoped. He’s squinting again lightly, like he’s studying him or considering something and it makes Harry want to squirm under his gaze. After a minute, Zayn’s face smoothes over and there’s a small grin at the end of his upper lip. He nods, once, and turns back to Thomas as if nothing happened.

 

Half an hour later, the meeting ends, and Harry has to fight himself to calmly collect his things and not shove everything in his bag hurriedly. Zayn is clearing up his side as well, and they head out together, quietly making their way through the corridors until they reach the library’s entrance.

 

“So…” Harry begins, shuffling on his feet, a child waiting for his parent’s sermon. Zayn cuts in.

 

“Well, I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you on Tuesday, okay? And say hi to Louis for me!” He hugs Harry then, something short and unusual that raises a flag in Harry’s head. But if Zayn’s soft expression is anything to go by, he’s safe, has nothing to worry about from him.

 

“I will. See you!” he waves before entering the library, climbing the stairs two by two. He opens the French room door, stomach in excited knots, and turns left to reach the small nook; their spot.

 

Louis is there, waiting for him, his computer and a few books scattered on the table, leaving no space for anyone to sit there except Harry. He looks up and sees him, sending a lovely smile his way, bottom lip caught between his teeth and corner tugged upwards, uncontrolled. Harry feels his eyes crinkling with it and sits down on the free chair next to Louis, the other taken by his bag.

 

“Well, hello there, Sir,” Louis murmurs softly, pushing his books to the side to free some space for Harry, and it fills him with the want to kiss him square on the mouth and call him “mon coeur”.

 

“Bonjour, Louis,” he says in answer, head bowing a little bit, and when he looks up Louis is staring with a strange look on his face. A look that could pass as similar to some of Harry’s own when he’s studying Louis. He shakes his head a bit, gets rid of the thought, and starts getting his stuff out of his bag to busy himself. He switches his computer on and looks for a file when he feels a nudge against his ankle, Louis’s foot knocking against his own.

 

“How was your day, Haz?” Louis asks, voice low as he whispers, the nickname sounding even more airy and his skin erupts in goosebumps. He’s looking at Harry with an undivided attention, computer and all the work it’s holding forgotten to the side, as if he’s been wondering all day what Harry had been up to. His hands feel almost clammy, but the feeling swirling inside his chest is far from being unpleasant, happy nerves flowing in his veins.

 

“Boring and long. So, so long. I swear it felt like  _ The Neverending Story, _ ” he answers. It brings a giggle out of Louis and Harry feels superhuman. “Stop laughing, it was horrible. Ask Zayn, he’ll tell you, even the meeting was awful. Our president can’t decide on a theme for this year’s Christmas screenings so he’s making us vote. Except that he hates all of our suggestions and then ends up trying to find one himself. And then asks us again. It’s a never-ending hell.” Louis is full on cackling now, trying to muffle his laughter by biting on the sleeve of his sweater, but, to Harry’s delight, it’s only half-working. 

 

“Well,” Louis wheezes out once his glee is under control, “I hope our meeting won’t add to the overall shittiness of the day”.

 

“Oh, I’m not worried on that front,” Harry says, smile turning devilish. “I already know it will,” he finishes with a toothy grin plastered on an innocent expression, and the obvious fakeness of it all causes Louis to chuckle. Pleased with himself, Harry gets his phone and earbuds out, offering one to Louis who takes it and nudges it in his ear. With a smile, Harry hits play and they both turn to their computer, ready to actually work.

 

He can feel Louis fidgeting around the 40 minute mark and he counts secretly how long it takes for him to break completely. Turns out, not so long.

 

“Hazza, what you’re working on?” Louis says, dragging out the vowels in a childlike manner that brings a grin to Harry’s mouth.

 

“Old Icelandic exercise, why?” He’s slumping over his chair, feet crossed at the ankles, relaxed.

 

“No way,” Louis stares, eyes wide. “You must be kidding me. Prove it!”

 

A mask of seriousness slips on Harry’s face before he’s saying random words that, as far as he knows, mean absolutely nothing. Louis is studying him closely, judging, before stating, “You’re messing with me, you absolute prick.” 

 

The effect is immediate, like a slap across the face and Harry almost forgot what it’s like to be called that again, never knew what it’d felt to be called that by Louis. It stings. It’s too many memories, too many rejections wrapped in one, usually harmless, little word. He feels himself retracting, body going taut and tense, back straightening up in his chair, both feet planted firmly in the ground, jaws clenched tight in instinct. 

 

“Yeah, sorry,” he grits out, almost wheezing it. His fingers are intertwining and squeezing, squeezing until he doesn’t feel them anymore. He feels Louis’ eyes on him, then a hand on his. 

 

“Hey, Harry,” he calls, barely above a breath, skin caressing skin, soothing. “Harry, what’s wrong? What did I do, Haz?” he asks again, like Harry is some kind of wild, spooked animal and maybe he’s right because the soft touches are loosening his grip, unclenching his jaw, smoothing out the line of his shoulders. He feels a sting again, but this time it’s behind his eyes and he closes his lids, doesn’t want anything to spill out.

 

“Hazza?” Louis insists, hand gripping Harry’s a tad stronger.

 

“Sorry,” he manages to get out. “I just really don’t like that word.” He opens his eyes then, diving straight into two agitated pools, filled with worry. The soothing caress starts again.

 

“I’m sorry, Harry. Won’t use it again, I swear,” Louis says, making an aborted movement with his head, as if about to lean in but decided otherwise. “Wanna tell me about it?” he goes on, foot nudging Harry’s ankle.

 

“Not really,” he answers, grateful to see Louis just nod, his fingers still warm against his skin. They stay still for a few minutes, a piano piece pouring between them through the earbuds, suspending time itself and wrapping the moment around Harry’s heart like a balm.

 

“I’m okay, Lou. It’s okay, we’re good,” he says then, a hint of amusement in his voice when he sees Louis slumping in relief at the words.

 

“Thank God, I was scared you’d just stand up and leave and never talk to me again,” Louis whispers then and Harry’s not sure whether he’s joking or not, his head facing the ground. Harry’s fingers twitch then before wrapping themselves around Louis’s wrist, an echo of the previous comforting gesture.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sorry, you’re stuck with me for a while longer.” Louis looks up then, expression vulnerable and there are traces of impossible and unexplainable fear there. He’s grinning though, and that’s enough for now. Harry knocks their feet together again before turning back to his computer, fingers letting go of Louis.

 

“To answer your earlier question more seriously, I’m working on a paper for my Literary Representations and the History of Homosexuality class. And yes, it’s as awesome as it sounds,” Harry states with a smirk. Louis leans in a bit, eyes filled with curiosity, so he goes on. “I’m trying to draft an outline around homosexuality in poetry. I’ve been reading some poems of Rimbaud these past weeks and researched him a bit. He was actually the lover of another well-known French poet, Verlaine, and some of their most famous works they wrote for each other,” he rambles on, words flowing out without reserve. “Anyway, it ended pretty badly for them. Verlaine actually shot Rimbaud, though he didn’t die. But it was a pretty good reason for breaking up,” he finishes, eyes glinting with excitement. 

 

There’s something akin to astonishment painted on Louis’s face, and he’s not closing his mouth properly.

 

“What the hell, he shot him? Why?” he exclaims then, Harry bursting into laughter at the indignation filling his tone. 

 

“Well… I don’t really know…” he rasps out. “Apparently they drove each other a bit crazy, so he just shot him. You know, classic artist behaviour,” he adds, voice still wobbly with giggles, and Louis joins in seconds later.

 

“I’ll remember that if I ever go out with a dude that paints, or anything else along those lines.”

 

“Hey, I write too, and I’ve never shot anyone,” Harry protests, smirk still broad on his face, finding its exact twin on Louis’s lips. 

 

They turn to their respective screen again, stealing glances from time to time, and always smiling when their eyes meet. Time trickles by, slow and syrupy in the comfort that has settled back, and soon the clock reads 9:34 p.m. 

 

Somehow, his stomach registers he’s hungry only after becoming aware of how late it is, and lets out a loud and very long growl that echoes in the empty library, Louis’s turning immediately his way before stifling a cackle. 

 

“Alright then, time to go home and get fed,” he declares then, beginning to gather his things and gesturing Harry to do the same. “Can’t have you too hungry or you’ll start to eat me instead,” he states without even knowing how true the words ring in Harry’s mind. They finish packing and head out, like a distorted repeat of two weeks before. This time, however, there is no awkward silence, no tentative gesture from Louis to ease Harry out of his shell. He’s already there.

 

“Hey, tell me if this is too personal, but I was wondering where all the French comes from,” Louis asks once they’re seated in the bus, huddled against one another on the front seats upstairs, spices steadily filling Harry’s senses again.

 

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” he starts, gaze lost on the road ahead, the shimmering grey shifting with the light of the street lamps. “My sister and I had an au pair when we were little, like, I was around five when she arrived. Her name was Sophie, she was French, and I absolutely adored her.” He chances a glance at Louis, whose focus is solely on him, before carrying on. “She taught me how to bake and how to cook, read me stories and sang lullabies before bed. She was there when my parents weren’t, always willing to listen and to take me seriously. That meant the world to me back then, she was basically my hero. So, imagine, little impressionable me having my favourite person speaking something I couldn’t understand… that just wouldn’t do.” He forces his features into a childish pout, similar to the one he’d have in the early days where he couldn’t understand Sophie’s simple instructions and would whine about it.

 

“I just asked her to teach me, and she said yes. She told me later that she loved being able to speak it still even so far from home. It lasted for 4 years, as long as she stayed at ours, and I was more than fluent by that time. Then, she had to leave obviously, wanted to find another job and start a career. That broke my heart, and hers too a bit. We kept sending each other letters for years, and learning everything about France I could to make me feel closer to her in a way, so I just did.”

 

“What happened, after?” Louis asks, soft as a feather.

 

“We fell out of touch,” Harry grins. He can see Louis’s eyes veiling with sadness as his own used to a long time ago. 

 

“But… that’s so…” Louis starts, unable to finish. 

 

“Yeah, I know. But it’s okay, not everyone can stay forever, and I still have all those wonderful memories, you know?” he says, trying to comfort Louis, bring some joy back into his face. “Also, I’ve grown so much with her, found something that I’m fascinated with. And it definitely helped when I took French for my A-levels,” he jokes. There’s a twitch at the corner of Louis’s lip; it feels like a win.

 

“I’m curious though, when do you practice it now?” Louis asks.

 

“I don’t really pay attention, but I’m just surrounded by it now. Like… I read French books, I listen to French music, I speak French to Yol, too. All of that I do with English too, but it’s a different feeling almost.” 

 

Louis’s eyes are eager, interested. “In what way?”

 

“Like… it’s almost as if each language belongs to a side of me, or a different aspect. Sometimes there are things that are easier to say in French than in English, like… expressing feelings? It’s a bit weird…” Harry trails off, interrupted only by Louis shaking his head. 

 

“Not at all. There are actual studies about this, how bilingual people have different parts of their brain reacting to different languages. Especially with you, since your process of learning it was so intricately tied with your emotional engagement, it’s not surprising you’re feeling more comfortable with one language for some things and the other one for other things,” Louis says, tone assured. “I love learning about all of this, that’s why I’m in Education Studies. The way we absorb information and use it to build ourselves, especially as children, it’s just so fucking fascinating.” His face is fully lit up, awakened with a fire burning from within, passion animating him. It’s amazing to see, the first rays of sunrise piercing the horizon, blindingly beautiful, and Harry can only stare, heart ajar, ready to pour.

 

He’s interrupted before he can even open his mouth.

 

“Holy shit, I’m the next stop, I gotta go!” Louis startles before standing up, hugging Harry again briefly but tightly, arms strongly wrapped around his back. “By the way, I hope Zayn told you, we’re doing a Halloween night on Tuesday and you’re staying over, no choice given,” Louis grins, poking Harry in the cheek, right where he knows his dimple to be.

 

“Wasn’t planning on bailing,” he answers to Louis’ disappearing figure. His gaze follows him outside, his silhouette blending slowly with the ambient grey while Harry’s insides feel more colourful than a rainbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Shhh bébé, ma princesse… shhh, ça va aller”  
> Shhh baby, my princess… shhh, it’ll be alright
> 
> “Princesse, tu te sens mieux ? Ca a l’air”  
> Princess, feeling better ? Looks like it
> 
> “Mon coeur”  
> My heart (French petname)


	4. D'un amour plus bleu

 

Louis is absolutely not freaking out.

 

Alright, that’s a small, tiny lie. Louis is freaking out a little bit. Harry texted 5 minutes earlier that he was on his way and since then Louis still hasn’t found anything to wear, clothes scattered all over his bed and there might even be a sweater on his desk. He’s just filled with inexplicable nerves, has been since he came home from uni, mind unable to focus on anything but Harry sleeping over tonight. He felt his knee jittering when he was taking his tea with Liam, then it was his hand while smoking with Zayn, but it had been barely noticeable compared to Niall’s sunny smile. The boy was vibrating with excitement, like a child about to go to a party or finally allowed to play with his favourite friend again.

 

Louis took his shower half an hour ago, mind set on taking his time to prepare and try to look good. But since then, the only thing that happened was a tornado of clothes and a stress-inducing little text. His mind keeps being attacked with pictures of Harry, soft and sleepy, trying to make a cuppa just after waking up. He is very, very distracted.

 

There’s a gentle knock on the door that makes him jump and finally pay attention to his surroundings. Zayn is standing in the doorway, knuckles still grazing the wooden frame, and he’s watching him. Louis knows that look: he’s piecing things together. His eyes roam around the room, encompassing the chaos, then set on Louis, how he’s rubbing his left wrist. He’s probably looking half-flushed too, and that’s definitely not helping his case.

 

Zayn is smirking a little bit. Yep, definitely not helping.

 

“Well… Need some help, Lou?” Zayn asks. There’s a sparkle of teasing mockery in his tone, but not even half as much as Louis expected. Instead, it’s filled with gentleness and affection, which is far from what Louis would normally get for having a crush. He’s not gonna question where the respite is coming from however, and just shrugs, feeling like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

 

Zayn approaches him then, raising his hand, letting it land on Louis’s shoulder. He’s fully smiling now, teasing completely gone.

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll look good anyway,” he says then, before picking up a dark green sweater from the chair. “There you go. Black sweatpants if you wanna be comfy, and you definitely wanna be comfy. It’s better for cuddles,” he adds. He ruffles Louis’s hair then, which is met with a small annoyed huff that should have blown into a full fit if Zayn wasn’t being actually helpful. “Just to be sure, wanna talk about it? I can send Liam if you want, he’ll definitely fuss over it,” Zayn says, teasing fully back in now that his approval has been stated.

 

“That’s a pass on that one,” Louis says. Liam would be insufferable, watching his smaller movements, going from mother hen to protective hawk. Zayn chuckles at that, turns to exit while Louis’s gaze falls back to the clothes in his hands. He’s cut from contemplating the sweater by Zayn’s voice coming from the corridor.

 

“He’s good, Lou. You’ll be good.”

 

Somehow, it brings a hopeful smile to his face.

 

***

 

Harry arrives a few minutes later. Louis is finishing putting his clothes on when the doorbell rings and the noise makes his stomach swoop with anticipation. He hears Niall’s booming “I got it!” resonating under him, then the loud echo of his footsteps from the stairs. He opens his window, head peeking out, and Harry is right there, standing on the porch, still discernible through the misty rain. He’s wearing a beanie, calmly waiting, hands in his pockets; Louis wishes he’d look up just to see his eyes.

Niall opens the front door, the light from the hallway washing Harry’s figure in golden hues, engulfing him in a welcoming hug right away, Harry’s hands wrapping around his back. With a smile, Louis closes the window.

 

He can pick up the noises from the stairwell, then the door opening and closing, Niall’s voice filling the flat once more. Harry’s deep baritone is there too, and it feels warm, like it belongs with the rest of Louis’ home. There’re some greetings, Zayn and Liam joining in the mix. Louis should definitely get down now…

 

“LOU-EEEEEEEEEH,” Niall howls, knowing perfectly how to angle his head to make his voice go straight through the floor and into Louis’s room as if he was standing there instead of one level down. It’s no wonder the neighbours hate them.

 

His footing feels unsteady when he walks down the stairs and into the living room. Harry is right there, in the middle of shrugging off his coat before stopping altogether when he sees Louis. They must look like a pair of idiots, looking at each other, perfectly still, matching beams on both their faces. Casting a glance at Zayn confirms it: he looks like the cat that got the cream, expression proud and smug. Zayn is officially the worst.

 

“Hey,” Harry says, voice deep and soft.

 

“Hey, Hazza,” Louis answers. 

 

He moves then, pretending to grab something on the table, a ploy to touch Harry’s arm in passing. He knows the boys are watching them, knows they won’t say anything unless Louis shows he wants them to, and it reassures him. Well… all except Zayn, who’s sliding next to him, hand grabbing the ashtray Louis was going for. He stares at Louis’s face from the side, unblinking until Louis caves in and turns to him. He’s graced with a shit eating grin, eyebrows raised to the heavens; Zayn mouths “Hazza” to him and he can ear the teasing question in there, making him flush dangerously. He flips Zayn off, ineffective unless making Zayn laugh counts as a result. He goes to his armchair then, the one by the window that he proceeds to open, and gets a cigarette out from his pack, lighting it up.

 

Niall joins him soon, sitting down on the far side of the sofa, a soft plaid wrapped around his shoulders. “He’s just loving it, it’s not often he can fuck with you.” 

 

It’s true, is the thing, because Louis hasn’t been interested in anyone for a while, and never in someone like Harry. He’s like a stone, reflections changing with the light, shifting, but always fascinating, always pulling him closer. A black hole of surprising softness, a sharp contrast to Louis’ first impression.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he quips back. “I’ll let him enjoy it for a while.” That makes Niall smile.

 

“Not too much though, can’t get off his and Liam’s backs. Look at them, too fucking adorable,” Niall whispers, nodding to the pair that’s talking quietly to themselves, Liam watering the plants on the windowsill, Zayn brushing the leaves aside to help, one hand resting against the small of Liam’s back.

 

Harry is watching them too with a private smile, and it grows when his eyes meet Louis’. He walks up to him and Niall, joins them on the sofa.

 

“Are they always like that?” he asks, intrigued. 

 

Niall nods with a beam. “Nope, worse. They’re always in each other’s pocket, always whispering things to each other. I swear to god they’re giving me cavities, but I also never want it to stop. Although, they’re tame right now.”

 

Zayn looks their way then, arm tightening around Liam’s waist.

 

“You little gossips should look up what pizzas we’re getting instead of talking, you’ll be hungry in like 5 minutes with nothing to eat,” he admonishes.

 

“Actually,” Harry says, “I made cookies for dessert. Hope everyone likes those, I just wanted to bring something.” His fingers are moving again, twisting around each other and Louis wants to reach out across Niall to untangle them, put his own in the spaces between. Harry’s eyes go to him and he smiles reassuringly, eyes crinkling, and it smoothes the lines on Harry’s forehead.

 

“Harry, I know this is sudden, but will you marry me?” Niall blurts out, utter awe and wonder filling his eyes, and it makes something tighten in Louis’s throat right before Harry bursts out laughing, joined with Liam and Zayn. Louis’s never heard that sound, and it’s ringing inside his chest, reverberating in his bones, making his insides tremble like an earthquake. He’s pretty sure he’s looking at Harry the same way Niall was mere seconds ago, as if he’s some sort of apparition.

 

They all order their pizzas, deciding that they’re all hungry enough to get one each, before setting the TV in the living room and turning the loveseat and armchair to face it. They bring out drinks to put on the table, almost within arm's reach, as well as Harry’s cookies, which might be a bad idea because now Louis just desperately wants to taste one and he might not be the only one from the pining looks Niall’s sending them. The cookies are saved by the doorbell; without a word, they all turn to Niall, silently designating him to fetch the pizzas. He puffs and huffs but ends up standing and grabbing the keys while they all cheer.

 

Zayn and Liam are trying to find a horror film when Harry slowly slinks to the end of the sofa, closer and closer to Louis, stealing what was Niall’s spot. Louis bites his bottom lip, trying his best not to grin but his efforts fall short when Harry glances his way with a shy smile, all pretense of stealth lost.

 

“Hello there, fancy meeting you here,” Louis says, feeling like a 12-year-old desperately trying to get his crush’s attention. Still, it seems to work if Harry’s sparkling eyes are anything to go by.

 

“Hiya,” he answers. “I was passing in the neighbourhood, thought coming by would be nice. You know, saying hello, getting comfy…” His hands move then, fast, grabbing Louis’ blankets and wrapping it around his own shoulders in one smooth movement. “Stealing some warmth,” he finishes, eyebrows wiggling, completely ridiculous and yet he still makes Louis chuckle under his breath, this impossible boy.

 

Niall comes back into the room then, followed by a delicious smell of tomato and cheese, arms filled with cardboard boxes. He glances at Louis and Harry, the plaid that’s on both their shoulders despite the two armrests that separate them, before shrugging and plopping down on his new spot, handing out the different pizzas to each of the boys. Apparently, the other two have settled for Blair Witch in the meantime, and Liam hits play before turning all the lights off.

 

Louis has already seen it and the beginning of the movie isn’t that scary, at least not to him. When he glances at the boys, Zayn, Liam and Niall seem engrossed, all chewing absent-mindedly on their slices. Harry, however, keeps glancing between his box and the TV, almost as if he’s scared to have his eyes on the screen for too long. He’s focusing on his pizza a little too intensely for it to be casual, bringing an amused smirk to Louis’s face.

 

“Hey, Haz,” he murmurs, leaning in towards him, and somehow Harry is much closer than what Louis expected, his scent filling Louis’s nose. It’s floral and powdery, something dark lying underneath. Lovely.

 

“What?” is the answer.

 

“You okay?” he breathes out, mindful to not be too loud. Niall hates it when they speak during horror films.

 

“Mmh mmh,” Harry hums. “Just not a big fan of horror films. I get scared easily, to be honest.” His eyes are glowing in the light of the screen and it brings Louis back to their first meeting, to how he didn’t know what to think of Harry then. 

 

He nods, whispers back, “It’s okay, you don’t see a lot in this one. It’s all about the tension and the atmosphere, I promise.”

 

“Well… it’s working,” Harry adds, small lines gathering between his brows and Louis wants to reach out, ease them away with the pad of his thumb. He bites it to stop himself.

 

“I’m putting you two in a time out if you don’t shut up,” Niall murmurs then, eyes still glued on the screen. It makes them both giggle before settling, sharing secret looks from time to time, not wanting to risk Niall’s wrath. 

 

Louis feels Harry freeze several times during the movie, body going rigid, eyes wide and unblinking, a startled deer on the verge of running away yet too afraid to move. But then nothing really happens, lulling Harry back into relaxing again until the next time a twig breaks or something strange occurs on screen. When the end draws close, the action speeding up and spiralling, Harry’s limbs go taut and stay that way. He’s leaning forward, then backwards, hesitating between coming closer to not miss any detail, to understand everything that’s going on, and backing away into the safety of the sofa, the warmth of the plaid. It’s then that Louis realises he’s been staring at Harry for almost the entire film, unable to tear his eyes away, and even that new awareness isn’t enough to bring him to focus back on the TV.

 

It’s Harry’s jump that makes him do so, and he watches the last frames of the movie, the camera filming sideways. The film ends, credits rolling in. Harry’s blinks slowly as if waking up from a dream, then his eyes land on Louis. 

 

“What... the hell,” he whispers. He looks so shocked and lost that Louis bursts out laughing, a bark that cuts through the eerie atmosphere that had settled in the living room, breaking the boys out of their daze.

 

“I swear that ending always gets me,” Niall adds, while Liam nods vigorously in assent.

 

“Well you’re not ready for what I’ve got in store then,” Zayn quips up from the loveseat, Liam half sprawled on his lap, trying his very best to look menacing with a puppy cuddled up against him. He’s not very successful, and Niall snorts.

 

Apparently, they should have taken Zayn more seriously, because Insidious is next, and that one actually gets to Louis. He’s not staring at Harry this time, fully immersed in the story, jumping and startling in sync with Harry who’s just as into it as him. He doesn’t notice it at first, how they’re both steadily leaning towards each other, resting more and more against their respective armrests. He’s actually surprised when his elbow touches Harry’s where they’re meeting, head whipping up to look at him but he’s still watching the screen, completely unaware. It’s just a casual touch, nothing dramatic or even different from what Louis has instigated himself before, but it feels like more in the dark living room. It tells of intimacy, seems completely normal, as if they’ve done this a hundred times, curling towards the other for comfort. His heart is in his throat, beating and beating and beating even stronger, even faster when another jumpscare comes and Harry just grabs Louis’s forearm, firm and grounding, looking for reassurance. So Louis leans in, nudges his head against Harry’s who’s now watching him from the corners of his eyes, mouth right next to his ear.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry whispers back, completely focused on Louis now. “This one is way scarier. Is the next one gonna be worse?”

 

“Dunno, but I wouldn’t put it past Zayn,” Louis says, then quickly shuts his mouth when Niall shoots a glare his way. He mimes zipping his mouth up, which makes Harry chuckles, before smiling at Harry, left hand patting the one that’s still holding onto his arm. Harry looks down then, finally realising what’s he’s been doing and, with a lovely flush to his cheeks, tries to take his treacherous hand back. Louis doesn’t let him though; instead, he intertwines their fingers and squeezes once, letting Harry know it’s more than okay. Face still pink, Harry nods, then turns back to the screen before startling again when faced with the red-faced demon.

 

They don’t move from where they’re entangled before the end of the movie, somehow ending up half sat, half leaning on each other where the armrests meet.

 

“Okay, I’m calling a pee break, also… we need cookies,” Niall states, rising from the sofa in a flurry of soft blankets and cardboard boxes, grabbing each empty pizza container from where they lay forgotten, either on one boy’s lap or the floor. There’s sluggish movement from everyone followed by some groans as they stretch, Liam back into a non-horizontal position. He’s rubbing his eyes and if Louis didn’t know better, he would think Liam actually fell asleep.

 

Actually, witnessing him wiping a little bit of drool from his chin, Louis is pretty sure he did.

 

“Guys… should we make popcorn?” Zayn asks, and suddenly everyone is alert, backs straighter.

 

“Fuck yes,” Louis answers and he stands up, fueled by his newfound craving. He and Zayn prepare two bowls, topping it with marshmallows and toffee sauce, the traditional way in their household. When he turns back to the sofa, Niall still isn’t back, the free spot next to Harry looking more inviting than ever, especially with the way the boy is looking at him with a grin, the green of his irises barely discernible in the half glow lighting the room. Giddiness flows in his veins when he sits at Harry’s side, legs tucked underneath him, offering the popcorn to him for a taste. Harry moans in delight at his first bite, to Louis’ pleasure, and the bowl ends up precariously balanced on top of Louis's knee, half turned into Harry’s warmth. 

 

Zayn’s final pick is REC and it should be just as scary. However, with Harry nestled next to him, both sharing the same plaid, hands sometimes meeting in the bowl leading to shared looks and joyful smiles, the jumpscares and the tension don’t affect them as much. At some point, Harry leans into him; Louis’ arm comes up naturally, wrapping around his shoulder to support him better, pulling him further in. It feels right.

 

***

 

In the entire array of nervous thoughts that crossed his mind earlier, Louis had missed one important, kind of major, detail.

 

“So… where am I sleeping?” Harry’s voice sounds even deeper, still raspy with slumber as the credits roll in on the screen. He fell asleep for almost 15 minutes at some point during the movie, woken up at the end by the screams coming from the TV. Somehow, Louis managed to restrain from peeking at what must be the cutest sleeping face, mostly because looking would mean jostling Harry from where he was comfortably leaning on Louis’ shoulder.

 

But now, Louis’s brain is blank, trying to understand how the hell he missed that.

 

“Well… you’re bunking with Lou,” Niall replies, confirming what Louis was getting to himself. “I’ve only got a single bed, and obviously you’re not sharing with the other two. Unless you wanna take the sofa, but…” he trails off. 

 

Harry’s eyes are on Louis immediately, probably reading into his silence. He tilts his head, trying to smooth his feature into something less nervous and more welcoming. “I’m happy to share, Haz.” That earns a nod from the boy, one hand twitching but not grabbing the other, not scratching or twisting; this time, it’s not an anxious tell.

 

Everyone gets on their feet to tidy up the living room, one folding the blankets, another putting away the now empty, but still sticky, bowls of popcorn. Liam pushes the TV back to his and Zayn’s room, the final touch to clear the space. For the first time since he’s moved in, Louis is unsure about going up to his room. He, Harry, and Niall say their goodnights to Zayn and Liam on the first landing, agreeing to have breakfast all together before classes, before going upstairs, Niall retreating to his room after one last hug each.

 

Louis walks in first, breathing out a relieved sigh when he notices he did clean up his room of the mess of clothes it sported before. It’s still a bit messy, but nothing compromising is lying around, and he stands to the side, restless, letting Harry in, backpack on his shoulder. He’s keyed up, limbs jerking as Harry looks around, fingers sometimes reaching out to caress a photograph, graze a poster, play with the strange light bulbs that hang above his desk.

 

“You room is…” Harry begins, hand trailing along the wood of the bedside table, “so pretty.” He turns to Louis then, a soft grin on his lips. “Very you.”

 

“Why, thank you Harry,” he replies, willing the butterflies to still. “Do you need to borrow anything? PJs, boxers, towel?” 

 

“Erm… I should be fine. Though, is it okay with you if I just wear boxers to bed?” Harry asks.

 

It’s not okay.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he lies, begging his mind to stop imagining things before realising that he’ll soon actually see what it’s picturing in the flesh. “I’m a tee and boxer guy myself.”

 

Harry’s eyes crinkle in answer.

 

“There’s a toilet right there, and a sink, so you can brush your teeth there if you wanna,” Louis says, pointing towards the right door in the dark hallway. 

 

“You go ahead,” Harry replies. “I wanna snoop around a bit more if that’s alright with you,” he adds, too charming to be offensive or rude, and Louis just shakes his head with fond disbelief.

 

“Alright, but don’t snoop too much, Mr. Curious,” he quips before grabbing a t-shirt to sleep in and heading towards the bathroom. 

 

When he comes back, changed, face washed and teeth brushed, he finds Harry crouching in front of his small bookcase, digits playing on the back of some classbook, attentively reading each title. The bulbs cast a soft glow on the scene, and it reminds Louis starkly of that night in the library. This time though, Harry is in his room, his rolled up sleeves letting more tattoos appear, dark lines littering the creamy skin; he looks like he could belong here, too. Louis wants to walk over to him and gather him in his arms, press his front to the soft jumper covering his back, bury his nose in the top of his hair. Breathe him in, keep him inside, warm and safe.

 

“Found anything good?” he asks instead, feeling almost feverish, his lungs ready to collapse.

 

Harry turns to him in a gentle motion, all smiles. “Yep, found that,” he says, pointing to a book that looks ancient, brittle and ready to tear apart. It brings a wave of love inside Louis.

 

“Oh. That’s my old fairytale collection. I used to read them to the girls for bedtime. Brought it here so I’d have a bit of them with me when I’m away.” He clears his throat, trying to tamp down the feeling stuck there. Looking down, he sees Harry watching him, eyes filled with something undecipherable.

 

“You’re an incredible person, you know that?” he murmurs, sounding so loud to Louis’s ears, reverberating all around the air, filling the room. Harry points to the picture standing on his desk.

 

“That’s them?” Louis nods. “They’re beautiful, clearly runs in the family,” he adds, tearing a wet chuckle out of Louis.

 

“Come on, Haz, go brush your teeth, you dirty boy,” he teases.

 

“Yessir”

  
  


Louis prepares for bed then, plugging in his phone and setting an alarm for 8 a.m., giving them plenty of time to prepare brekkie for everyone. He settles in bed then, to the far side against the wall, trying to keep his breathing and heartbeat under control.

 

His resolve crumbles to dust when Harry comes back in. True to his word, he’s only wearing underwear, his long limbs on display, shadows and endless planes of skin carved out by the warm shine of the table lamp. There are more tattoos, much, much more tattoos than Louis was prepared for and he wants to trace every single one of them; maybe kiss them, too.

 

If Harry was beautiful before, he looks unreal now. Still, there’s a hint of self-consciousness on his face. He’s rubbing the side of his neck, shuffling on his feet. Louis wants to erase any trace of unease. He grips the duvet between his fingers and lifts it up, inviting Harry in. He doesn’t wait long before the boy is lying by his side, warm under the covers, eyes closer and greener than Louis’s ever seen.

 

“Should I turn the light off?” Harry whispers. It fits the mood, somehow, as if any sound louder than a murmur would break something in the air between them. Louis nods, and then there’s darkness.

 

They stay immobile, like two statues, still facing each other and too aware of how close their bodies are. It won’t do.

 

“You had fun tonight, Haz?” he asks to the dark. A rustling sound, muscles moving under the duvet. Something brushing against his arm. He shivers.

 

“Yeah, I did,” the dark confesses, deep and gravelly and so, so close it’s dizzying. “Thanks for inviting me, again.”

 

“Of course. Love to have you here, we all do,” Louis replies, eyes still searching blindly, unwilling to give up and close them yet. A hum answers him. He feels Harry shiver, mere millimetres from him.

 

“You cold, Hazza?” Louis asks. He yelps when he feels cold feet touching his calf. There’s a giddy chuckle, and then, “A bit.” He laughs too, before wrapping his legs with Harry’s, a small and sharp inhale coming from him.

 

“Good?”

 

There’s more movement. Two arms sneaking around his waist, pinning him, pulling themselves closer, fingers tangling in the fabric of his tee and resting along his back. Harry’s head comes next, slowly, to rest against his chest, right against his heart that’s beating double time. His hair tickles the skin of his collarbones, his top tugged down with Harry’s embrace, and it makes his skin erupt in goosebumps, tingling from his toes to his scalp. He waits a beat, a second, before wrapping his arms around Harry, one lodged underneath his neck, following the curve of his shoulder, the other resting in the dip of his waist. Their legs are pressed together like vines, bodies slotting and blending, two matching puzzle pieces.

 

There’s a content sigh coming from Harry, humid against the front of Louis’s tee, an echo of the feeling nestling between his ribs. 

 

“Good,” Harry breathes out.

 

Cheek pressing against the top of Harry’s head, Louis inhales flowers again. Tethered by the weight of Harry in his arms, he falls asleep.

 

***

 

Louis wakes up first. Their bodies have slightly untangled themselves in their sleep, but he’s still holding Harry when he comes about, the first slivers of consciousness steadily trickling in his head. There’s a bit of light coming from the window, the blue curtains not opaque enough to block all of it, making Louis feel like they’re underwater. He does then what he wanted to the previous evening, and peers at Harry’s sleeping features.

 

He was right. It’s one of the cutest things he’s ever seen, right up there with the looks of his sisters on Christmas day or the twins giggling when he pushes them on swings. Everything looks a shade darker, washed in a blue hue, Harry’s hair ruffled left and right, some strands stuck to his face with perspiration, others to his nape. His face is calm, almost looking younger, lashes fluttering from time to time with the dreams that live behind his eyelids. His mouth is open, lips dry from the cold, but as pink as ever against the silky looking skin; two lovely petals of a morning flower. His arms are resting between them now, hands curled up in loose fists, pressing against Louis’s chest.

 

He looks tender and soft, a water cherub that somehow ended up in Louis’s bed by mistake. Happiness is flowing through Louis veins like a delightful poison. He never wants to get up.

 

That’s when his alarm rings, shatters the moment. Harry grumbles, lips smacking to chase moisture, capture it again, unsuccessful. His hands unfurl, brushing Louis’ top, soon followed by the rest of his limbs; he’s stretching, cat-like. His eyes drift open, finally, gleaming in the glow of the room.

 

“Hi,” Harry says, voice as raspy as sandpaper.

 

“Hi there,” Louis responds, unable to control the fond that’s overtaking his face.

 

Luckily, Harry doesn’t seem to mind, happily smiling back, eyes still dusted with sleep. Neither of them is moving away, content to lay as they are, close and breathing the same air. Louis can hear pots banging underneath them, water running, all signs that at least one of the boys is up (although it’s highly probable that it’s Zayn and Liam waking up in sync, gross as ever).

 

“Mmmmh… we should probably go downstairs and help,” Harry mumbles, cheek squished against the pillow, eyes twinkling with kind mischief.

 

“See, I disagree with the should,” Louis says, getting a chuckle out of Harry, who decides to become an early menace and tickle Louis’s side.

 

“That’s cheating!” he screams, laughter forced out of him, painful and way, way too loud for the morning.

 

“The end justifies the means,” Harry quips back, poking out his tongue like the 5-year-old he is.

 

They’re interrupted by Liam’s voice. “Boys! Wake Niall up and come down for breakfast.” 

 

Harry waggles his eyebrows, a silent way of saying “told you so”, before standing out in the cold, boxers riding so low it’s indecent, making Louis flush bright pink and avert his eyes. He moves around then, picking up a change of clothes from his backpack before opening the door and disappearing in the hallway, calling a “meet you downstairs” behind his shoulder.

 

Louis slumps back on the bed, feeling overwhelmed already. He has to wait a few minutes, willing his little problem to go down quicker. In the meantime, he hears doors opening and closing, the baritone of Harry’s voice trying to raise Niall from the dead and, surprisingly, managing to be successful in less than 5 minutes, a new record. He stands up then, puts on sweatpants, and exits the warmth of his room. Walking in the hallway, he realises what his bed smells like: a mixture of himself and Harry, something comfortable and pleasant. Something he could get used to.

 

Entering the living room, he kisses the cheek of everyone starting with Liam, who’s busy making pancakes. Zayn is cutting up an apple, handing out pieces of it to a blanket-wrapped Niall, who proceeds to take one bite, then pass the rest to Harry’s lips from where he’s leaning against him. Harry’s eyes are on Louis though as his mouth opens up to eat the fruit.

 

“Morning, everyone.”

 

A chorus of “Morning, Lou,” answers him. He sits down at the table, plating some food, followed by Liam. Suddenly, Niall speaks up. “I had the weirdest dream. I was chased around by a drunk dude who was throwing slippers at me, except that he had like, an unlimited amount of them. And he kept demanding I give him back his dog, except I didn’t take the dog in the first place…”

 

Laughter crackles in the air, small morning fireworks to start the day.

 

***

An hour later, breakfast is eaten, the table cleared up, and most of the boys have showered; Liam is finishing up, Niall the only one left to go.

 

Zayn and Harry are sat at the table, computers open, both looking up movies for a Film Society thing that they should have worked on earlier. They shrugged off Louis’ “You still have two days to prepare that stuff,” making the most of being together to brainstorm some ideas.

 

“By the way, babe, you’ve started looking at your year abroad options? You had your meeting yesterday, didn’t you? I forgot to ask you,” Liam says, voice coming from the bathroom.

 

“Yeah, I have actually,” Zayn answers, head tilting a bit on instinct, trying to reach Liam. “I’ve been looking at the New York Studio School of Drawing mainly, their joint program looks insane,” and somehow this earns a nod and a smile from Harry. Louis’s eyes squint of their own accord.

 

“That would make the most sense,” he interjects, and Zayn looks up at him with a soft grin of his own. 

 

There’s something akin to annoyance flaring in Louis’ gut at the display, and he can’t stop himself from wanting in the conversation.

 

“Why?” he asks, directing the question at Zayn.

 

“They specialise in both painting and sculpture,” and why is it Harry answering him? “It’d be right up Zayn’s alley, and a perfect base if he wants to pursue a fourth year project that combines both.”

 

Zayn’s head is tilted to the side, and he looks at Harry with something like fondness in his eyes.

 

“Spot on, Haz,” he says, and Louis’s blood is boiling and he doesn’t know why. Maybe that’s because Zayn’s never called him “Haz” before, only Louis. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

 

“Any other school you like?” Harry’s eyes are set on Zayn’s face, and Louis almost feels like he’s intruding, walked in on a couple planning their future together and that’s stupid because Liam is literally in the next room, listening to the conversation as well. Still, he wants to punch something. Something like Zayn’s perfect face.

 

“Well there is les Beaux-Arts, too, but apparently I’d need to learn French alongside the usual course and that just sounds like a lot,” Zayn quips, and then, his eyes fall on Louis, calculating, finding something in his expression that paints a sly and teasing smirk on his lips “Although, you could teach me some, getting a headstart and all that,” he adds, voice a shade too happy.

 

“Of cou-”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Somehow, Louis doesn’t even notice he has spoken up until Harry’s wide eyes set on him, both surprised and questioning. He gulps, and in an attempt at nonchalance, shrugs, gaze refusing to meet Harry’s again, embarrassment burning bright in his throat.

 

“Ah. well,” Zayn starts with a chuckle that definitely sounds devilish to Louis’s ears. “I’m mostly set on New York anyway.”

 

Feeling his cheeks heating up and silently cursing his best friend, Louis stands up with a small “gonna go for a smoke”, grabs his pack, left forgotten on the table, and heads out of the living room, passing Liam on the way, who’s looking decidedly amused.

 

“Don’t forget your keys,” Zayn shouts. Louis can hear the glee in his voice and really, he hates him.

 

He grabs his jacket on the way as well as the damn keys before half-slamming the door, dashing down the stairs like a shot. He closes the front door harshly as well before sitting down on the front porch, trying to light a cigarette with one hand, having to go about it three times before succeeding. He takes a long drag, then exhales for as long as his lungs can, trying to expel all that’s swirling inside of him with it. He feels stupid, completely transparent in his ways, foolishly and more than unreasonably jealous; gone too far for a boy who isn’t his, no matter what he wishes. His eyes draw shut, heavy like lead with sudden exhaustion. 

 

He wonders what Harry thinks, whether he’d get jealous too if he’d see Louis share something he’d know to be special with another guy. He’s being unfair, he knows, unfair and stupid and it makes him want to laugh at himself a bit, or curl back in the warmth of Harry’s arms in the room underwater.

The door opens behind him, and he knows who it is already.

 

“You’re a dick,” he says, voice light because he’s not mad, not really. Zayn is still chuckling, and Louis finally joins him.

 

“True... But, bro, you should have seen your face. You were thinking about hitting me so hard my cheek could already feel it,” Zayn states, Louis laughing even harder now because he’s absolutely right. 

 

“Fair enough,” he says, shoving Zayn’s legs before pulling him down, forcing him to sit down next to him with a smile. He offers him a cigarette from his pack, Zayn accepting it with a nod before lighting the end of it. They stay there, smoking for a few minutes in silence, watching people passing by, the cars honking, Camden’s flurry of activity hitting in full swing now.

 

Zayn’s voice cuts into the flow of Louis’s thoughts. “You know,” he starts, “I’ve known you for two years, and we’ve been best friends since you barged in my room bawling your eyes out because of that story of that old lady and her dogs.” The memory startles a giggle out of Louis. “In those two years, I’ve never seen you like I have yesterday and this morning.” Zayn goes on, eyes settling on Louis’s, too perceptive. “Like, you were literally glowing when you came down this morning, and then ready to murder me over some private French lesson with your boy.”

 

“Not my boy,” he quips in a small voice, but Zayn’s already shaking his head.

 

“Not my point. You want him to be.”

 

There’s a moment of heavy silence and Louis can feel Zayn’s pointed glare burning the side of his face. 

 

“Don’t make me say it, Zen, it’s been like… a month, it’s way too fucking soon.”

 

“Do you remember what you told me about Liam, Lou? Cause I can make you remember if you don’t,” Zayn threatens, Louis only letting out a long-suffering and put-upon noise of complaint.

 

“Alright, I like him. You’ll have to settle for that, I’m not saying more than that right now,” he concedes, eyes meeting Zayn’s, whose face is almost split in half with the force of his smile. 

 

“Fine by me,” he responds. “But I just hope you’ll up your game when you tell him.” He takes a drag from his cigarette, letting Louis contemplate his words.

 

There’s noise coming from behind them, the door opening on Niall’s boisterous voice, he and Liam stepping beside them onto the pavement, gesturing for them to follow. Zayn stands up, brushes off dust from his arse and starts walking towards the bus stop. Louis can feel Harry standing behind him, a warm presence that materialises as a hand on his shoulder, barely grazing.

 

“I grabbed your bag, you forgot it earlier,” Harry says. When Louis turns to face him, his expression is a bit cloudy, worried. This time, Louis doesn’t hesitate, hand reaching out to lovingly smooth the lines out.

 

“Merci, Hazza,” he whispers, leaning in just a bit in Harry’s space, waiting until he hears him inhale before backing up, grabbing his bag in one hand, his forearm in the other and tugging, pulling Harry by his side. 

 

They catch up with the boys in seconds; the journey to uni is a bit too loud but so happy, some of Niall’s jokes making other passengers laugh on the bus. Louis busies himself by poking Harry wherever he can reach every so often, enjoying his morning softness, wishing he could experience it more often. Once at UCL, they all go their separate ways, and it’s not even 5 minutes later that Harry texts him a smiley face.

 

Maybe upping his game won’t be too hard after all.


	5. Que le ciel autour

  


Harry wakes up to a text from Louis, a simple “Good morning, H, good luck with your test !” that brings a smile to his face first thing in the morning. Yolanda is meowing into his ear, intent on pawing at his hair. He doesn’t even have the heart to brush her off, too busy mooning over his phone. He types out a quick answer, legs swinging up and down in the air where they’re not tangled in the sheets. Yolanda decides to change her end goal, climbing on Harry’s back and settling down between his shoulder blades, claws harmless pinpricks against his skin. They lie there for a while, bodies warming up to the gentle sunlight, still sleepy, both drifting in and out of consciousness.

 

The day goes by in the same fashion, hazy and not completely in tune, Louis’s messages trickling in; their conversation is always there, a constant background since the Halloween sleepover two weeks ago. They’ve had another of their library session the following Friday but haven’t been able to see each other since, Louis having to go back to Doncaster on the next weekend to visit his family. He sent Harry pictures, loads and loads of pictures; giggling faces of Louis and his sisters, arms around the dogs the family got a few months ago, disastrous and less disastrous meals more or less scattered on the table. They all made Harry smile, the knot of longing tightening in his stomach with each passing day. He saw the boys though, meeting with Liam for lunch once, Niall for coffee, and going to the flat when Louis wasn’t there. They watched movies, ate pizzas, but even if he had a great time it felt unbalanced somehow, Louis’s absence glaringly obvious when Harry’s eyes fell on the armchair by the window. He went home to sleep that day, curling up next to Yolanda on his bed, looking at the pictures Louis’s sent him like a lovesick fool.

 

His takes his test feeling a bit out of it, half-focusing on what he’s writing down. Louis’ replies have been more sporadic and spaced out as the day went on, which is very much unlike him. He can’t stop himself from worrying, wondering if he’s fine.

 

So, not feeling like he’s over-reacting at all, Harry types a text to Niall as he walks out of uni. He and the boys were supposed to meet at the flat once everyone was done with class anyway; they planned a night out consisting of walking around the area and pick a bar that looked good enough to down a few drinks.

 

Niall doesn’t answer back, even though his afternoon was uni-free and he said he would be home doing a few bits of homework. It does nothing to help Harry’s anxious feeling and he gets off the bus directly at the boys’ stop, not bothering to come home first and change. The distance from there to the boys’ front door seems shorter than usual and maybe that’s because Harry is walking much, much faster. He’s almost out of breath by the time he’s on the porch, furiously ringing the doorbell.

 

There’s the noise of the window opening a few levels above him, then Niall’s head peeking out.

“Just a sec’, I’m coming,” he says right before disappearing inside again. So…Niall is fine.

 

He can hear him getting down the stairs, loud footsteps audible from the other side of the door. When Niall opens it, he looks slightly dishevelled, hugging Harry hello before heading back to the staircase, not waiting around and leaving it to Harry to close the door behind him. He follows Niall, questions bouncing around in his head, the most prominent being “What the fuck is going on?” He must be thinking a bit loud or projecting, because Niall turns around just in front of the flat, hand almost twisting the handle.

 

“So… Louis isn’t feeling too well. I’m warning you, he’s very whiny,” he says, a sombre air on his features. The worry that was wreaking havoc in his guts flares up.

 

“He’s ill?” he asks, feeling his own voice tensing up.

 

Niall nods: “Yeah, nothing too bad I think, but he doesn’t get sick very often so when he does, he just turns into a toddler. Or like… a 6 or 7 years old at best.” He opens the door then, climbing the last steps to the first landing. “Had to babysit him a bit this afternoon, sorry if I didn’t answer your text,” he adds, glancing Harry’s way with apologies in his eyes.

 

“That’s okay, don’t worry. I was just concerned ‘cause Louis wasn’t answering anymore, so I wanted to check if everything was alright,” Harry replies. It makes Niall smile somehow.

 

“You’re too nice, Haz. Also, I took Louis’s phone, he didn’t want to leave it alone so I had to confiscate it. Told you, a child,” Niall says, a big grin on his face, “Should have known he was talking to you.”

 

The remark would have had Harry blushing a week or so ago, but he’s given up on the boys teasing him. They had been insufferable when Louis wasn’t there, even if Harry’s head snapping every time he had an incoming text was a bit ridiculous.

 

“It’s okay. I’m here now. Where is he?” he asks, eyes automatically looking up as if he could now see through the very much concrete floor, earning a snort from Niall.

 

“In his room, though he might be sleeping. Don’t think he’ll be in any shape to go out tonight…” Niall adds, looking up as well and squinting his eyes, halfway between teasing and checking if there is anything to see. There isn’t, not really, but just knowing that Louis is there reassures Harry.

 

“Alright, I’ll just go and check up on him,” he says, voice already quiet, as if Louis could be disturbed one floor up.

 

Niall grins and nods: “I’ll make some dinner, the boys will come back hungry I think and we gotta eat before we hit the town.”

 

Harry’s feet are careful on the stairs, skipping the step board that creak, mindful to always land on the carpet. He pauses in front of Louis’s door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, the only noise in the ambient silence apart from the clinks coming from the kitchen, Niall probably rummaging through the cabinets.

 

Harry opens the door slightly, gently, as soundlessly as he can.

 

Louis is on his bed, bundled up under the duvet with his head, fists and one foot emerging from it. His toes are curled in, fingers clutching the top duvet, aimlessly caressing it in his slumber. His hair is ruffled, spilling on the pillowcase, feathering on his forehead; a few strands graze his eyelashes, infinite above his cheekbones. His mouth is slack in his sleep, smacking sometimes before letting out some grunts, mumbling some words. The sunset touches his face, adoring, making him glow gold. He looks so delicate, the sweat beads sparkling on his hairline the only sign of his fever.

 

Harry wants to go and sit next to him, tuck him inside his arms and never let go of this precious boy. He goes to close the door, unwilling to disturb him, when it clunks against a pile of book scattered on the floor. Louis’ eyes flutter open with slow blinks; he lets out a long yawn, kitten-like, before pushing his head further out, voice raspy when he asks “Niall?” Harry’s heart feels so full and so brittle all at once, ready to explode or shatter at the smallest movement.

 

“Nope, not Niall,” he breathes out and that has Louis’s lids open fully, gaze landing straight on him.

 

“Hazza,” Louis rasps out, before letting out a low hum that rings in the air, “you really there, love? I thought you guys weren’t going out ‘til later.”

 

Harry moves then, sitting down on the bed just like he wanted to seconds ago, right by the curve of Louis’s body.

 

“They’re going out later yeah, but I was a bit worried, so I came by early.”

 

Louis’s voice rises on his “They?”, letting it trail off at the end. He looks like he still has something to say, so Harry waits, watching the hazy thoughts piecing themselves together behind Louis’s irises, and there it is: “Wait, why were you worried?” Harry could stay there forever, he thinks.

 

“Yeah they, I’m not going out, I’m gonna stay with you, alright? And worried cause neither you or Niall were answering. I thought something might have happened.”

 

Louis whines again, but this time he also hides his face under the duvet, tugging it up until there’s only his hair left outside.

 

“Noooooo,” he pleads, and it shouldn’t make Harry giggle yet it does, pushing Louis to protest again, but longer and louder this time. “You can’t stay in because of me, Haz. Go out! That’s an order!” he demands, tone pouty.

 

“Nope, I’m not going,” Harry chuckles, watching as Louis rolls on his side so his back is facing him. “Come on, Lou, no tantrum.”

 

“Yes, tantrum,” is the muffled answer coming from the covers.

 

Eyeing up the space Louis just freed on the bed, Harry lies down, arms sneaking up to wrap around Louis’s covered body, pulling him close to his chest. Louis kicks playfully for a bit before stilling, backing up, closing the space between them. Harry feels him turn over under the fabric, waits until he’s unmoving again before gripping the top of the blanket and pulling, freeing Louis’s face. He’s flushed from all the moving around and smiling like a loon.

 

“Hi there,” Harry whispers, feeling a twin beam pulling at his lips. Louis just pokes his tongue out in answer, not expecting Harry to touch it with his thumb. He shakes his head, surprised, but Harry cuts in before he can say anything.

 

“Come on, I’ll make dinner,” and that gets Louis’s attention.

 

“Alright,” he concedes, a faux-air of annoyance on his features. The effect is ruined by the twinkle in his eyes, giving Harry the impulse to kiss his forehead. He does, then stands up, not missing how Louis’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

 

“Gonna check on Niall, rest a bit more alright? I’ll bring back food.” Louis nods once, closes his eyes, sleep overtaking him again before Harry is even out of the room.

  


There’re more voices coming from the living room when he gets down the stairs, and sure enough, Zayn and Liam are on the sofa, chatting with Niall who’s standing in front of the stove, having somehow gotten home without Harry noticing.

 

“Wait... He’s not half-chewed up, no scratches or blood… You sure he went to see Louis?” Liam asks once he spots him, directing the words at Niall who’s just smirking. “You said he was sick?”

 

“He is,” Harry replies, “just a bit of a fever, it should be gone tomorrow. But I’m gonna stay with him tonight, just to make sure.” He walks to Louis’s armchair and sits down, not noticing Zayn’s pleased look. There’s a beat of silence, the sizzle of Niall’s stir-fry the only noise in the room.

 

“How was the day guys,” he asks, and it snaps the boys out of it, Liam starting on the recollection of a weird case they had to study in class.

 

***

 

When Louis stumbles down the stairs, duvet still resting on his shoulders, the boys are already gone. Harry is still in the armchair, computer forgotten on his lap in favour of watching a sleepy Louis appearing in the doorway, one hand keeping the blanket from falling, the other rubbing his eyes.

 

“Haz?” he asks, eyes still half closed; Harry feels himself melting, reduced to nothing but pure, unabashed love. He still tries to school his expression into something less intense, but Louis is walking in closer until he’s right there, sitting on the armrest, folding his body to rest against and over Harry’s side, Harry’s head. Harry’s heart.

 

“Hazza,” he rasps out again, “M’hungry.” His lips smack once, twice. “The boys’re gone?”

 

From the very beginning, sleepy soft Louis has been Harry’s weakness. From the first day on the bus until the morning after Halloween. But those times were nothing compared to the torture that’s sick, cuddly Louis, tethering on the verge of needy. Harry’s fondness must show and he’s glad Louis’s eyes are above him, that he can’t witness whatever is happening on his face right now.

 

“Mmmh mh, they left, like, 30 minutes ago,” he replies, his voice showing nothing of his inner turmoil. “Niall made a stir fry, but I can cook something else.”

 

“Don’t bother yourself too much,” Louis mutters before nuzzling into Harry’s hair. Harry stops breathing.

 

“Coeur,” he lets out on an exhale, barely spoken, but Louis hears it still.

 

“What’s that, mmh?” he asks, fingers searching around and settling on his forehead, rucking up his hair to peer at him, eyes curious.

 

“Nothing,” Harry responds, “What about curry? You’ve got everything for it…”

 

Louis smiles then, mind joining Harry back to the evening spent at his place taking care of Yolanda.

“Is it our official "get better" dish, then?”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Harry says, removing himself gently from Louis’s grip to stand up and get started on the cooking. Louis sighs before carefully letting himself down in the armchair, back in his spot.

 

Harry works quietly, humming along from time to time with the songs from the playlist Louis’s put on.

At some point, he feels a cool breeze of air coming in the room. He sniffs once, and, without even bothering to turn around and check what he already knows, says: “Lou, no. You’re sick, you’re not gonna smoke and make it worse, put that out.” There’s a small sigh from behind him, a soft clunk, ashtray sitting on the windowsill; the breath of wind stops. Louis doesn’t even protest, and it makes Harry smile, warmth coursing through his veins, stilling underneath his skin.

 

“Harry,” Louis says, vowel long and whiny, “I’m bored.”

 

“Almost done, love. Wanna pick what we’re watching?”

 

“Mmmmh, I want something nice. Great British Bake Off good with you?” Louis replies.

 

Harry turns then and Louis is looking all cute and lovely, tilted towards the computer, eyes roaming on the screen, still bundled in the duvet but it’s sliding more and more off of him, exposing a dark grey tee and expanses of skin, a collarbone peeking out from it.

 

“Sounds perfect.”

 

When he’s done, Harry plates the curry and the rice in two large bowls and takes them to Louis, not bothering to set the table. Louis’s taken care of placing the computer on a chair, right in front of them.

They watch a few episodes in silence, leaning against each other above the armrest, an echo of the night they spent together weeks ago.

 

Louis’s voice cuts through the silence suddenly.

 

“Hey Haz, do you remember the first time we met?”

 

Harry’s mind goes straight to the bus, to his first glance at the wonderful boy that’s now by his side, the way he’d made his stomach twist and his head turn already then. But Louis isn’t talking about this moment, completely unaware. With a wince, Harry recalls his first time in the flat.

 

“Not my brightest moment,” he says, earning a light chuckle from Louis.

 

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t mine either. Had a bad day, patience level down to zero, yadda yadda,” he states. “But yeah, that’s what I was thinking of. You’ve never been like that since then. Or like, sometimes at the library, at first… But it didn’t last. Even back then actually. I was just wondering what went on those times…” he rambles on.

 

Harry would have dodged the questions a few weeks ago, and actually had, unwilling to expand on the reasons that had him freezing on Louis during their first study lesson. Reaching out inside of himself, Harry feels none of the phantom feelings. There is no entrapment, no fear of judgement, of Louis leaving him behind for a rogue remark; no uncertainty that Louis will remain his friend for as long as Harry lets him.

 

This time, he wants to explain.

  


“In college and high school,” he begins, “people didn’t like me very much. That was back when I was losing touch with Sophie and I just… kind of didn’t make any effort to bond with people anymore, because the one I had connected with was moving on. So I just read a lot, studied a lot. That’s when I got into French the most and nerding out on a language that already seems pretentious really didn’t help with other people, strangely enough.” He chuckles a bit now, thinking back on it in the safety of Louis’ presence.

 

“I was known as ‘the pretentious prick’,” he says and Louis tenses up against his arm, eyes set on the side of his face. “Kind of followed me around for years, that name. So, from that point on it just… I don’t know… got to me. To the point where I was actually acting like one. People always judge people, what they say, how they act… what they wear, what they read, what they watch or even listen to and the scrutiny became too much. I started to just… Lash out, randomly, just to get the attention of people away from me, because generally when I did have it, it wasn’t so nice. It worked pretty well, but it also stopped the good ones from ever looking again.”

 

When he finishes, it’s as if Louis stopped breathing altogether. He’s not moving, not saying anything, not even blinking when Harry turns his way. He stands up, towers over him a bit, all sharp lines cutting against the light coming from the streets. Then, in a blurry movement, he plops down on Harry’s lap, body angled sideways and arms secure around his neck, his embrace on the cusp of being too tight.

He hears him breathing, impossibly long inhales, like he’s trying to reassure himself just as much as Harry right now, high strung.

 

“Lou?” Harry tries.

 

“I’m just… sorry, just wanna hold you for a bit,” Louis says, hands sneaking in Harry’s hair, brushing his scalp softly in a soothing motion.

 

Harry lets go then. He hums, face going straight for the spot he adores, the smooth line between Louis’s neck and his shoulder, nuzzling against the skin. Resting. Louis’ hands don’t stop once.

 

A few hours later, the boys find them fast asleep.

 

***

 

When Harry comes to, it’s to feel something moving against him, gentle, careful and very much trying not to wake him up. He doesn’t move, not wanting to show Louis that he’s utterly failed his attempt at being stealthy.

 

He does peek one eye open to look at him though: Louis is clutching at the end of the sofa, where they ended up falling asleep, getting up with slow and precarious jerks. He turns to Harry, who closes his lid, not wanting to get caught. Louis is tucking the duvet back around him, leaving no gap behind, wrapping him in warmth to compensate for the loss of his body heat. When the hands withdraw from him, Harry risks peeping again. His eyes fall on Louis retreating back then on his feet, focusing on the way he’s tiptoeing, cautiously avoiding all the creaking boards on his way to the cabinet. He grabs a glass, then, just as slowly, heads towards the bathroom on the landing.

 

Harry hears him fill the glass, water splashing against the sink, but not as much than if Louis had done it in the kitchen, and it’s the exact same thought that must have passed through his mind. Always cautious, always thinking about Harry, even with the little things. The glass clinks against the porcelain, Louis leaving it behind.

Surprisingly, his silhouette fills the doorway again. He makes his way back to the sofa instead of going to his room, sleeping on the much more comfortable bed that’s waiting for him. Instead, he’s trying to settle back against Harry as quietly and smoothly as he can, slipping under the duvet, barely letting a puff of air disturb the toasty warmth inside of the cocoon he created. He slots back in place, limbs falling back around Harry as if he’d never left.

 

That’s what breaks him.

 

Harry opens his mouth, piercing through the eerie silence with a quiet “Lou?”

 

It startles Louis, especially when Harry tries to sit up. He follows the movement still, eyes not leaving his face.

 

“You’re alright, Haz?” he asks.

 

Harry inhales in deep, trapping the air inside his lungs, letting it pour back into the room before the words come in.

 

“From the very first moment, I saw you and you just took my breath, and my thoughts, and my heart too, all of that you took away. It was like a bloody hold-up, and the worst is I never thought about fighting it. Because you’re just so, so enchanting, do you know that? Like the way the light plays in your eyelashes and makes the colour of your eyes shift? Like that.” Harry knows he’s rambling, but it’s inevitable at this point. He held off for too long.

 

“My first thought was about your eyes actually. They’re like the sea. _La mer a des reflets d’argent, des reflets changeants._ I thought about that fucking song the first time I saw you. And the worst is I actually told you that one remember, couldn’t even help myself and that’s why you were annoyed with me, remember? _La mer_.”

 

He chances a look at Louis and his wide eyes have him lowering his head, closing his lids firmly shut so he can’t face that expression again before he’s done. And he’s not done. The more he speaks, the more it wants out of him, an unstoppable hurricane that destroys everything in its wake, wipes out all the pretences Harry worked so hard on.

 

“I saw you before that first night. One day, I woke up too early for class, thinking alright, let’s just go in early, even though I never do that. Took the bus just 30 minutes early and that’s the one you boarded too. And again a few days later. And I changed my alarm clock on those days, just to see you again. Mondays and Thursdays, 8:45 a.m.”

 

“Wha-” Louis tries, but Harry pushes through.

 

“You were there, in the morning, looking so soft. You had a cowlick at the back of your head once, and your sock wasn’t properly on. And there was this other time where you had a smudge of toothpaste on your cheek. And that one time with the baby, too. You were smiling and laughing, pulling faces at her, being so much. And all these things Louis, all these tiny things, those insignificant details that, somehow, no one else noticed, they’re like papercuts. They’re so small and still, it’s those ones that sting the worst. Because I always knew that I didn’t stand a chance, but knowing that never hurt quite as bad.”

 

Harry can hear the break in his voice, the stuttering breath, and yet he can’t stop, words spilling out like an uncontrollable stream that’s stronger for how much Harry tried to keep it in before.

 

“But I couldn't run my hand through your hair to put it back in place, I couldn’t push the sock back up with my feet, I couldn’t wipe the toothpaste with my fingers. And now, sometimes I feel like I can, like you’d let me, except that you don’t know how much it means, how much I feel for you.”

 

Harry sighs. “I notice all those things, Lou. They’re all so small, and they sting the worse, and there’s so many of them sometimes I feel like my heart is bleeding, pouring out, and I’m scared it’ll show and that you’ll know. You cut me open with every fibre of you, and I know it’s not fair, I know you didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want to ruin us.”

 

He sighs then, deep, and there is a choked up sound when he exhales, something stuck in his throat, sounding like prolonged heartbreak.

 

“So I’ll just… Try to stop, I guess. I’m sorry, Louis. Just… Forget about all of it, please,” Harry whispers as a final sentence.

 

He doesn’t open his eyes, lids still tightly shut. He never wants to open them again.

 

He does though. He does, because he feels fingers slowly sliding along his jaw, on either side of his face, gentle hands cupping it, holding it with care as if he’s about to crumble. He probably is.

 

“Hazza,” it’s quieter than a murmur and yet it sends shockwaves stronger than an earthquake rippling through Harry’s body. He opens his eyes, staring straight at Louis’ face and it’s so close now, so close he can count his eyelashes and the flecks of gold in his irises.

 

“Hazza, darling,” and the gold is drowning in a sea of unshed tears; Louis is smiling so softly, like he’s in a bit of pain too. “Darling, you’re so stupid,” Louis chuckles wetly, pushing his forehead against Harry’s, drowning him in blue.

 

“Harry, je t’aime”

 

It shatters his heart. Millions and millions of shards cast in the wind, violently brought back to melt together once more. It’s a punch to the gut that spreads an incredible warmth, waking butterflies and dragons and lightning bugs, setting his whole being aglow.

 

“What?” he manages to get out, voice and limbs shaky.

 

Louis chuckles again, petal soft and full of joy, hands sliding to join together between Harry’s neck, pressing their heads impossibly closer together.

 

“Love you, Hazza. Love you, love you, love you.” The words caress his lips, fleeting and floating in the air, painting a disbelieving smile on Harry’s features.

 

“Are you sure? You’re-”

 

Louis kisses him square on the mouth, crushing the doubts away. He backs away for a second only to come back with more pecks and then lingers, moulding their lips together.

 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he says when they separate themselves long enough to talk, and his eyes are still attached to Harry’s mouth, and Harry can’t believe this is happening.

 

“I never thought you did, never thought I-” Harry stutters, overwhelmed “I just never thought you would feel for me.”

 

“Of course I do, you absolute idiot. I’ve been falling for you for weeks now, everyone noticed, everyone knows,” Louis says with a brilliant grin on his face, lips tight over his teeth and slightly wet from their kisses.

 

“Falling?” Harry repeats, eyes wide, and the fauna in his tummy comes alive once more; he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.

 

“Yes, falling. Told you. Je t’aime.”

 

Harry buries his face in Louis’s neck at that, eyes dangerously close to spilling, a stunned noise escaping his throat. They don’t break the embrace for long, long moments, bodies blurring, not letting go.

 

***

 

The sunset casts a reddish tint on the walls of the flat, and it mixes perfectly with the warmth of the laughter that fills the living room.

 

“Don’t tell me you seriously wrote that down?” Liam exclaims, amused scepticism marking his features.

 

“Why wouldn’t I, I mean I’m honestly not interested now that I’ve got the green light for New York, so you know. Nothing to lose, all that jazz,” Zayn answers with his left hand waving around as if chasing any concern emanating from his boyfriend.

 

“But honestly? ‘I wish to never set a single toe in your class again. With hope, Zayn Malik’? I can’t believe you,” Louis says, cackling with delight. Harry can see every crinkle at the corner of his eyes from where he is, half sat, half lounging on his boyfriend, face resting at the junction of his arm. He traces them with a smile on his face, happily tuning in and out of the conversation happening around him.

 

“I mean, it’s the last mail I had to send to that old goat. At least I made the most of it,” Zayn shrugs, unbothered, sending Niall and Louis in titters again while Liam shakes his head with a fond grin painted on his lips.

 

Louis turns his head then, the remains of laughter on his mouth, the corners tugged upwards. His eyes meet Harry’s and they become impossibly soft, like always. It never fails to make Harry’s insides turn to mush, a gooey mess, syrupy like honey and definitely even sweeter. Sometimes he doesn’t know how he managed to never realise how Louis’ look always matched his own.

 

“Alright, amour?” Louis whispers and they’re alone in the room then, nothing able to disturb them; they float, suspended from reality.

 

“Perfect, mon coeur,” Harry answers, voice quiet and subdued, content written all over his face. He moves then, resting his head in the crook of Louis’ neck, his favourite spot for months now. He’s welcomed with cinnamon, nutmeg and wood. He breathes in deep, calm washing over him, wrapping him in the safety of his sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ! If you liked it, please consider reblogging the [tumblr post](http://cupcakentea.tumblr.com/post/169363470625/ajar-30591-words-by-cupcakentea-hiya-there) or [saying hi](http://cupcakentea.tumblr.com/)?


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